From August 27th until December 10th I will be living and studying in the Sultanate of Oman. This blog will display pictures and descriptions of the places I go, the people I meet and the experiences I encounter on my journey.
I feel like that last post was a little too lofty and theoretical. So, in an effort to come back to earth I’m going to tailor this cyber space briefing to some more practical measures that I experience on a daily basis here in the capitol of Oman.
No tickets for these rides…
First off, I want to talk about taxis and “Baisa Busses”. They are the bane of my existence. I’m restricted from driving on my own: one, I don’t have a car and two, SIT does not permit its students to drive while they are enrolled in the program even though my US drivers license is valid in Oman. So I depend on these OMR (Omani Riyal) consuming locusts to get almost everywhere. Ok that’s a harsh exaggeration, for the most part they are very nice guys and I get to practice my Arabic while en-route. But the death is in the details…there is no meter in the cabs, price fixing, racial stereotyping and general greedy subjectivity is rampant. At face value it’s just a massive horde of little cars that speed through the city honking and flashing their lights at every man woman and child who aren’t already driving… ok mostly just men on the side of these roads. But the point is, that it’s all about guessing with these guys. Nobody actually knows how much a certain distance or time in a cab should or does cost. There is no consistency. I’ve gone to the same place twice in one day and been charged two completely different costs. There are prices for Indian customers, Omani customers, and British customers and of course everybody’s favorite…the young American moneybag who doesn’t know where in the hell “Al-Hail Mamalis” is in relation to the “Ghubra Roundabout.”
I have paid and overpaid substantially on numerous occasions. But I’m getting a little wiser. I’ve developed three strategies to thwart the ability of the cabi to rip me off. 1: agree on a price before you get in the cab…ok but this doesn’t work if you don’t know how to get to your location…2: the best solution I have found is to just take a complete shot in the dark and hand the driver some money as soon as you pull up to your destination and get the hell outa there. They are left not knowing how much you really know about the “right” price and they won’t leave the cab to chase you down…well in most cases. I didn’t know that if a cab drops you off on the main road and doesn’t take you directly to your destination, he can’t really charge you that much… but if for example you want to go into the neighborhood and up to your house cause walking 300 feet at 1 o’clock in the afternoon means sweating through every piece of clothing you have and maybe even your backpack straps, then you get the driver to go the distance. I had a guy drop me off inside a residential area. I paid and exited the vehicle all in one motion…as I walked up to my house, the driver got out and threw the money on the ground and started yelling “I’ll call police, police!!” He wanted 4 OMR for a ride that I thought should have cost 1. I thought he was trying to strong-arm me cause he knew how to dial 9999 (911 here). I didn’t pay and just said “No habla engles”. I feel bad about that and wish I would have known about the unwritten neighborhood drop off clause in the non-existent ‘How to ride a cab in Oman statute of the state.’ I need taxis and they need me, things should be different. Also, it is legal to ride in a car without a seatbelt on if you are in the back seat. Most cabs have cut the belts out. I just don’t know why.
“Baisa Busses are an interesting trip to take… and although you don’t buy a ticket, it surely is a ride. Imagine a bus a little larger than a Volkswagen that drives up and down stretches of the highway as it picks up pedestrians who just need to get into feasible cab riding distance. The bus is really inexpensive, about 1-2 hundred baisa or about 20 cents… but if you don’t know what roundabout to get off on you’re screwed. The bus goes way to fast to see any signs, there’s no seatbelts and the driver is sometimes texting on his cell phone while taking a near 90-degree turn. Speed limits and red lights in Oman are really more of a suggestion than an order. There are little to no police officers patrolling the highways. Ride one of these busses at around 6pm: rush hour for those who go to a mosque to pray and eat at home after work (which is 90% of the city)…and you’ll undoubtedly share the ride with 19 (the max seating) Indian men who just got off of construction duty and smell kind of like… well, it isn’t curry. Indian immigrants perform most if not all of the laborious and sanitary jobs in Oman…their allotted role is akin to that of the Mexican immigrant in the USA. Their ‘no slack afforded’ treatment by the natives is similar as well.
I rode the bus last night and a couple Indian men fell asleep in the back, one on my left shoulder…the driver just kept driving around, up and down the highway as long as there were people in his transport. To stop the bus, everybody just bangs on the ceiling frame and the driver comes to a screeching halt. Passengers have to crawl over one another and hand the driver a little cash before jumping from the nearly moving vehicle, these guys don’t waste time or for that matter, money. Women who venture onto the speeding steel beetle are afforded an unfamiliar amount of respect (Not by Omani standards, but by American). Men won’t sit next to them. At first this looks offensive, but I don’t’ even want to cuddle up next to Kimji after he gets off from laying bricks all day, let alone brush whiskers with his brother to get off the coaster. I was on the bus the other day, and an Asian woman hopped on… the bus was full and even then, three men army crawled over their compadres to let her have her own three person seat right next to the door. This does not happen for young white men. I crawl and squeeze and cuddle and hyperventilate and pass out and jump off just like everybody else.
The Streets
Gas is cheap in Oman. There’s a Shell station less than a hundred feet from the PDO oil filed which supplies it, so we’re talking roughly 10 cents a gallon on an off day. This is good and bad. Cabs are cheaper here as a result of less overhead. On the flip side, everybody is always driving everywhere. Oman is a car-oriented culture. Traffic jams are about as predictable as the call to evening prayer and the car horn is a common sound in Muscat’s urban symphony. As I mentioned before, there are little to no police on the sides of the roads. Lack of manpower…lack of resources…lack of control…etc. all contribute to a vehicular jungle where the Peugeot is king (A small economy car…Europe’s version of a Honda has a lion as its emblem)...roads, stopping signals and speed limits are mere suggestions in a place where 80% of the population is under 32 years old. Nobody had a car in Oman before 1970, and if they did…there wasn’t a road to drive on. So there’s kind of a triple cocktail here that makes up a very dangerous driving situation: There’s nobody around to enforce the traffic laws…most Omani drivers are young kids who may or may not have taken a drivers education class and think speeding like Tom Cruise in Days of Thunder is cool. Despite the fact that the greatest contributor to Omani deaths each year is car accidents…everybody drives, a lot, and at any cost, monetary… or human.
Some people can’t afford a car. So they walk. Across the street. When traffic is moving at roughly 144 kilometers per hour (90mph). It’s like frogger. “OH shit that guys gonna get hii… oh phew. OH shit those guys are about to get smash…oh phew. I saw an Indian guy get hit two days ago. A car that jumped the curb to pass stalled traffic hit him. He rolled up and over the windshield and off the trunk…he got up and limped over to his buddies wincing in pain. I’m not sure if the car even felt him.
There aren’t really any street signs here and most of the roads are under construction…big wooden boards serve as privacy protectors for road workers…but really they just hinder any ability to view the other side of the road from a low riding cab. This is quite the issue if you have to look at business signs to determine your stopping location. I get dropped off short and long most of the time and have yet to hit my target spot on.
Buildings
Most of the physical structures in Oman are built somewhat pragmatically. Houses are white to minimize sun absorption, mosques are conveniently placed all over the city so praying on the go is relatively easy…(although that is a terrible term as praying should be a patient and deeply reflective span of time)… coffee shops literally dot the highway roadside and you can always find one or two within a couple hundred feet of one another in every neighborhood. Similarly, I have seen five tailoring shops in a row in the Seeb Market. The Dishdasha and female covering are long robes and thus most everyone requires a tailor. Small business is the norm in Oman. A couple families dominate the import export market so real wealth and power have been traditionally concentrated in the hands of a few, the Shanfari family/ business conglomerate has a three story office building in the heart of Muscat…the first floor is an entirely glass walled Ferrari/ Maserrati dealership. Thus, the average Omani most likely owns a small coffee shop, or electronics store, or “hair saloon” like “The Wazoo Saloon” by my house… (throws me off every time and I start thinking about Oktoberfest). Or a convenience/ food store or something that basically provides for one specific desire. This has been a problem in recent years because the government will subsidize an Omani owned store and pay the owner double what he would really make on his own. Some shops, like the coffee shop 10 feet from my house are never open because Omanis take advantage of a system similar to welfare in America. Also, nobody keeps regular hours at these stores…go one day at 2 o’clock and buy a bottle of water, the next day at 2 the place is closed. The shops around the city are not in a Yellow Pages, and they don’t have Internet “Contact us” sites. You just have to guess and test your way to consumer paradise…the good thing is that most shops are duplicates of one another and something is always bound to be open. Even Indian owned shops stay open during prayer hours.
Every building in Muscat has a strict height regulation imposed by the regime. They can’t be very high at all… every building except for the mosques, is roughly 20 feet tall. Mosques are strategically placed everywhere…and there are new ones being built everyday.
Muscat is a small city with a large population. Houses are generally built up and not out. It is not uncommon to see a middle class or more well to do family living in a 5 -story house. My perception on the socioeconomic relation between the size of these houses and the family’s income is somewhat jaded and or inaccurate. I live in a one story 6 room house attached to a tiny mosque (the speaker to signal the entire neighborhood for the five times a day call to prayer is five feet above my window…gets a little bizarre in the heat of the afternoon…just laying in bed sweating, the sun bouncing off the wall opposite my bed, the defining “ALLAH U AKBAR, ALLLAAAHH UU AKBAAR...Allah Akbar… shit gets weird when you play around with words in your own head.”) Essentially, every house in Muscat looks big to me. Also, Omanis are a modest people, only some wealthy families choose to show their income with frivolous opulence and others… like my friend Al-Jisr’s family, choose to remain level despite the ability to run awry with money. Some houses are so intricately designed and shaped so uniquely I just want to stop and snap a few pictures…although I have been instructed otherwise (just be on the lookout for a few in the near future). Houses in Muscat, except mine…have walls around their grounds... 10-foot tall stone walls with pretty substantial gates protect children and cars from being tampered with. Houses here do not have basements for some reason and when I asked about the idea of a garage I got bombarded with criticism for wanting to spend money on my “things” rather than my “kids”…who knows what that guy was saying.
A Few Recent Adventures
I’m sick. My family has all gotten sick as well…first my home-stay mother, who has a literal hand in preparing at least two of my meals every day, then the six year old boy who shakes my hand every time I walk in the door, then his sister who may or may not take a nap in my bed while I’m at school, then my home-stay father who I share a meal with nearly every night. And finally me. It was inevitable. The only member of the family who hasn’t gotten sick is our maid…not sure what her secret is but considering she leaves the room every time I walk in, I’ll probably never know. I don’t know why she does this; some of my advisors at SIT said it might be that she has had bad experiences with Americans or with men in general. I’m not going to press the issue. It started as a common cold…my home-stay father blamed it on the weather changing rapidly…yes, 95 all the way down to 89. Frigid fast. I tried to go to the hospital cause I was pretty sure I had a fever and just wanted to make sure it wasn’t typhoid…and then I realized that even though the Qaboos regime provides free healthcare to its citizens…there are no hospitals. Seriously though, I think they’re two legitimate medical centers in the city. Everything else is a privately owned medicinal odd-job which sets its self apart from the rest by touting a cure-all plant or mineral or some other hogwash. I just drank a lot, I mean a lot of green tea and water…I feel much much better now and I just sniffle every couple of seconds. Hell, I’m allergic to almost everything that grows in the mid-west…so why should the hottest sandiest place on earth be any different. I have had three different Omanis whom I trust tell me to only drink warm water and to not drink cold water because my cold could get worse…is this true??? My mom never said this, and I trust her more.
I had an interesting experience in my house the other night…I have never been sure why we keep the bathroom light on all day and night but consistently, and turn the electricity off to certain rooms of the house when they are not in use. I get it now. Yesterday I instinctively and reflexively flipped off the bathroom light switch. “Oh shit,” is right. I came back about 20 minutes later after a thousand and one cups of tea…the floor shifted when I opened the door…something crawled off the door -frame onto my arm and onto my face. I freaked out and stepped into the bathroom while swatting the little bugger off my eyelid… why did I step into the bathroom?? I felt a few squish under my feet and I sprang for the light switch…hundreds of tiny lizards were trailing out of the wall and through the broken/covered window in the ceiling to soak up the cool porcelain oasis. A few more reflexive tones resounded throughout the grand hall and into my family’s ears about 7 feet away… everybody knew what happened before even rounding the paper thin wall that separates the TV room from the rest of the house…I’m beginning to wonder if their laughter was an indication of their knowing about the lizards/ the light being off and wanting me to learn a good lesson…either way; lesson learned.
Speaking of bathrooms in Oman. Or at least at my house. Toilet paper is not used immediately after responding to nature’s heavier call. A small hose that is attached to most bathroom walls is used to spray off the dirty parts of one’s body…the idea is to leave the paper relatively unscathed so it can be odorless when stored in the trash can until trash day. Septic tanks are expensive to get drained and they fill up slower without paper waste.
This morning I am getting on a plane to Salalah. I have been looking forward to this excursion since before I applied to the program…expect a lot of pictures and a vividly detailed description of the place.
I have been living in Oman for almost one month. I think it takes about a month in a new setting for a paradigm shift to occur in one’s perception of their unfamiliar surroundings. Over a period of about one month, the fast paced excitement and blinding opportunity of a new place can sluggishly drift into dim, albeit not dark, reality. In other words, my experience is no longer a vacation and I can perceive it. Work, as it always manages to do… has meticulously labored its way in to my string of adrenaline packed adventures and destroyed my ability to just pack a light backpack on a Monday afternoon and go out looking for an adventure. Essentially, life has set in. It probably flopped into my lap like a dead fish as soon as school started two weeks ago, but I was still backpacking around for a good sushi place and didn’t bother to do anything with what was right in front of me. I still haven’t found a sushi place in Oman but that’s not the point. I’m actually living here now. Waking up, eating, schooling myself and getting schooled in the classroom, eating, exercising, doing homework, eating, doing homework, talking with my family in America (“In Islam, entrance to heaven is written on the foot of the mother.”-‘Shama’) at least once a week… and finally going to bed. Repeat. Repeat. Not a bad way to live, not at all. I’m still learning more in one day than I could grasp in three and I have a lot to look forward to in the coming week. But recently, I have had to stow the drip-control for my adrenaline reserves and buckle down. Laundry, dishes, studying, staying healthy, studying, they’re here now… and as Lil Wayne put it so parsimoniously, “…and I’m grindin’ until I’m tired this, and you ain’t grindin’ until you tired, so I’m grindin’ with my eyes wide, lookin’ to find a way through the day, a life for the night.” And that’s just it, I want to get as much out of this experience as I can…not just based on the schedule I was given when I got off the plane, but throughout every minute of every day in every experience I encounter no matter how minute it seems… even if that means sacrificing adventure in the desert for information in the classroom… and I’ll rest when I’m dead.
I have begun to accept the historically boring as thrillingly educational. I can see my Arabic paying off!! I still take issue with the kind of Arabic that I’m being taught but I’ve gotten over chiming in like a grandfather clock in a cab full of beeping Omani wristwatches. Strangers definitely understand me and I’m able to conjugate verbs in past, present and future almost instantaneously. The precious little sliver of this fascinating lexicon that I have managed to get a hold of is currently landscaping the deserted linguistic peaks and valleys of my brain laying literal verbal foundations and paving the way for my future communicative endeavors (every verb in Arabic has a root and a pattern that it shares with like-minded verbs, most words are alike in that they have the same “foundational” stem or ‘root letters’ this all ads to the idea that Arabic is a logical language.) If you want to learn something difficult, do it every day.
Similarly, I have adopted an old Buddhist proverb to aide in the absorption of my fact based studies as well as the recollection of more subjective lectures and experiences. “The palest ink is worth more than the keenest memory.” I refuse to let my experience here wash over me in hopes that I will leave with a cleaner and more polished view of Oman. No, no, no. Reflection is key. Whether I am dealing with a text, a movie, a speaker, or a road sign, I write everything down on paper. Perspective and fairness are only achieved with patient contemplation. Such patience cannot be properly allocated in space and time without notes to reference. Humans get distracted and forget. As much as I want to believe that hearing, seeing or reading something once will resound in the hollow corridors of my mind for longer than it takes me to enjoy a delectable Arabic, or Turkish or Indian shwarma filled with tasty chicken morsels spiced with traditional goodness and special Istanbuly sauce, slightly grilled and pressed to perfection with a side of roasted vegetables and French fries served hot and ready to eat…get my point. The written word is valuable. It can withstand time like no other reasonable construction and thus is the greatest informer to use, ex post facto. I have hand written journals to go along with each and every post…scribbled notes, sketches, streams of consciousness… a plethora of pages to be deciphered in the directors cut of this blog.
A mentor of mine once said, “when you squeeze an orange…juice comes out…and the same thing happens when YOU get squeezed.” Essentially, when the pressure is on, you see what you are made of. Travelling abroad to study in the Middle East is an experience riddled with high-velocity and high-pressure situations. Language barriers, cultural divides, subconscious tendencies that collide with societal expectations and a gamut of misunderstandings serve to make time here both stress full and rewarding. With that being said, culture shock is a real phenomenon. It occurs during various types and durations of trips broad and at various stages. Kalervo Oberg, in his article “Culture Shock,” defines the internal strife as… “(A)n occupational disease of people who have been suddenly transplanted abroad.” He claims that, “Culture Shock is precipitated by the anxiety that results from losing all our familiar signs and symbols of social intercourse.” Travelling abroad to Oman has been a bit of a culture shock. However, like most things in life, it’s not how hard you fall… but how you can keep yourself from falling in the same place twice that matters…and how high you get or jump. Studies abroad are as much about gaining knowledge on a specific region of the world as they are about learning how to deal with Culture Shock. Developing a set of skills to keep your self grounded, as well as tolerant while maintaining a lust to learn are positive methodologies that can be applied to every aspect of one’s life. Taking risks that allow me to navigate Omani culture, learning to be aware of myself and of my surroundings, using the Arabic language, and most importantly taking personal responsibility for my learning experience are just a few skills that I’m currently working on. Guess and test is really the only way to find out what works, this involves a bit of embarrassment, a little failure, and touch of humility to brew an unparalleled self-confidence. Drop someone thousands of miles from home and place a few rigorous and time-consuming expectations on them…and the juice flows.
Monday September 13: I spent the day exploring a few sites in the interior of Oman. By car, I traveled from the capitol city of Muscat to Rustaq and then to Nahaal. The interior of Oman is slightly different from the bustling capitol. It's just a bit more primitive. Essentially, the modernization within Oman has grown outward from the Northern tip of Muscat across the Northern coastline ( The Batinah Coast)... and spread slowly but surely southward toward the Yemeni border. Both of the towns I visited were within 100km of the capitol...my cell phone still got service and the roads were paved. However, my guide often had to stop the car for a wild goat or camel crossing. First, I stopped at the great fort of Rustaq...the fort overlooks the historic city which is famous for its date production. It is a massive structure built from mud and stone...all by hand...directly into the mountainside. The view from atop the lookout tower was splendid. After touring the fort and its respective city...I drove about 45 minutes southward to the 'wadi' town of Nahaal. 'Wadi' means riverbed. The city has historically thrived off of its relationship with the river...during the summer months, the riverbed drys up to roughly 2 feet of water. Instead of fishing and using the river for general utilities...the people of 'Wadi Nahaal'... party. They call this gigantic festival "Al-Wadi Kabir" or "The Big River Bed". Hundreds of natives from Nahaal as well as Omanis from neighboring towns and the capitol flock here to celebrate the end of Ramadan as well as a general lust for life. The scene at "Al-Wadi Kabir" reminded me of a music festival I attend every year at Denison called "Bear Dance". Everyone...families...groups of men and women, children, Omanis with African heritage, Indians, Pakistanis...all bring their traditions to the riverbed in abundance. It took me an hour to get through 200 yards of the long winding riverbed...I was constantly called by natives to take their picture or in some cases to share food...they were very curious about the only white guy walking through the party. A thumping drum beat resounded throughout the 'Wadi' and seemed to set the pace for every one's mood. I didn't make it through the entire riverbed. I hope to go back soon. There are a precious few places in this world where differences between cultures are allowed to mesh and thrive in an environment of such excitement and energy. I really felt at peace at "Al-Wadi Kabir". After the 'Wadi'... I drove East to a similar situation... the beach. I forget the name of the beach but it was heavily populated with families enjoying picnics...I had the chance to pay a fisherman for a ride over to one of the many small islands that dot the Eastern Omani coastline. Camp sites were set up on a few of the islands... I climbed a pretty steep cliff on one of the islands and marveled at the spectacular view of the ocean. It too was a very special place that I will always remember.
If anyone knows what type of fish these are...feel free to comment. Vendors pretty much lay out tarps on the ground and flop a bunch of fish down. People just walk up and buy them based on weight and type.
A vendor tries to argue with a customer over pricing issues.
It’s been over a week since my last post. Interesting experiences have come my way…some more relevant than others…and a few seemingly life changing.
Such a long period of time has elapsed since my last post because I want to make sure that the picture I paint on this web page is an accurate personification of my experience in Oman. My readers will never truly get hold of the thoughts and emotions that run through my mind as I live and breathe over here. Your view of my experience is myopic and construed through a pixilated canvas. So…I want to make sure that what I post not only reflects accurately on my experiences as I see them, but also that I may do right by the Omani. Their home and their kindness deserves a calculated respect and a deliberate patience as I shine their world through a Western lens onto the far world. I will continue to post regularly and with the same gentle tenacity with which I hope I have previously done. However, out of a desire to show humility in the face of the native… it is not and never will be my intention to mold this blog into a glorified twitter account. Please, keep reading regularly and with patience. Its also Eid right now so everything is closed and finding an internet oasis is pretty difficult in the desert.
Recently I have been taking Arabic classes for four hours each day from Saturday to Wednesday. I enjoy speaking Arabic and I believe learning the language will be immensely helpful to my assimilation into the Arab culture and might even provide an avenue for future job prospects. On a more pertinent note, upon meeting an Omani if I throw in some words from their colloquial dialect they get the immediate impression that I’ve been here awhile and know some other Omanis. I haven’t been here very long but the latter is certainly true. I really don’t care for writing Arabic, especially in ‘Modern Standard Arabic.’ MSA is the generic Arabic in which the Qur’an and most newspapers are written… but nobody except college kids who’ve been trapped inside an Al-Kitab book for two years (the most widely used textbook for studying MSA in the world) ever use the formalized and dry speech patterns. MSA when spoken to a cab driver in Oman would sound similar to William Shakespeare trying to catch a taxi from Brooklyn to Central Park. Yah, people might get the point, but for thou to expediently expound thou’s linguistic virginity with such pompous undertones so aversely sets the cabis’ sails against you that a little laughter at your expense is surly afoot. It gets you where you want to go but its mildly ridiculous. I may drop out of the intermediate writing class I’m currently subjected to in an effort to take more of the colloquial dialect under my tongue and in the true Omani fashion exchange the clearly classical for the markedly modern. If I ever need to write a business letter to an Omani I’ll hire a translator. If I need to phone an overseas partner I’ll do it myself. Also, the teaching style in an Arabic classroom is very different than any American setting I have been apart of…no English is spoken and all questions must be asked in Arabic. This is in an effort to allow the student to develop an understanding of the language from an Arabic perspective, as some words just don’t resonate conceptually within the English lexicon. However, the class usually digresses into a game of charades mixed with quick guttural noises as students scamper to discern the instructors point. I am learning though, with laughter.
I have also been attending lectures on the make-up of Oman’s internal political context. Specifically, I have recently learned about the deep roots that some Omanis have historically dug into the continent of Africa. Most notably Zanzibar…these Omanis can be called Swahili Omanis but most prefer to simply be regarded as Omanis. Oman’s empire under the Ya’Aribah dynasty is often considered the golden age as the holdings of the state ran from East Africa to Pakistan and India all the way up through Iran. It seems as if most Middle Eastern countries can muster up a time when they had what was rightfully theirs.
Sultan Sa’id (1791-1856) actually moved the capitol to Zanzibar in an effort to protect Oman’s commercial interests (probably slaves). Zanzibar during this period was a thriving center of enlightenment and the Sultan was considered to be a true patron of the arts.
A long story short…Omanis were previously deprived of educational opportunities and social mobility on the mainland…many of them chose to move to Zanzibar. However, as Zanzibar Omanis became the educated elite ruling minority in Zanzibar, the natives got angry. Socialist movements sprang up and took hold in the East African holding of Oman. However, like a lot of African debacles in history…in an effort to reduce the threat of communism the CIA and the British inserted a large propaganda machine into the country to change the nature of the sporadic socialist movements into an organized and systematic expulsion of the Arabs for nationalist gains. Thousands of Zanzibar Omanis were murdered and kicked out of their homes. Theses once wealthy educated elites were forced to flee and move into the UAE, the UK, Russia, Qatar, and Bahrain. Those who moved to the UK learned English and received Western educations. Upon his ascension to the throne in 1970…Sultan Qaboos invited all people with Omani roots to return to the country. Swahili Omanis returned in masse to assume high positions in business and government. Their education in English and connections to the UK proved invaluable to the success of modern day Oman. They continue to be the most affluent and liberal people in Oman. Strong family ties, a remembrance of their African roots combined with strengthening roots in Oman as well as love for the Sultan provide some insight into this unique demographic.
Similarly I have been learning a lot about Oman’s historic tribal structure. Every Omani holds allegiance to a specific tribe and can identify one another by just hearing a name. These tribes comprise large families and geographic areas within the Sultanate. The tribes provide a channel for loyalty and social mobility as well as providing the legitimacy of the sate in the eyes of most Omanis. In Oman, there is a ‘tug of war’ between the state and the historically powerful Sheikhs. What tribes still get power under the Sultan and which tribes loose out depends on their acceptance of increasingly limited leverage against the current power structure as well as family ties to the Al Sa’id regime.
As tribal interests become more entwined with the modern system they lose power and influence. Basically, as the people of a tribe decide that the modern progress created by the Sultan is a good thing…the Sheikh or tribal leader, looses the ability to negotiate with the Sultan by claiming that he might just take his people and go… However, the sate is a product of the tribes. As such, Sultan Qaboos recognizes the importance of these historic groupings in the make-up of his country. The government functions as a ‘corporate state’ in that it brings all of the tribes under one roof. Nevertheless, a photograph I saw depicted the yearly meeting between Qaboos and his advisors on one side of a desert lawn…the existing Sheiks on the other. The Sheiks all had traditional small bamboo canes that housed skinny swords or pokers and have always served to symbolically denote a position of power and wealth. Qaboos and his men were shadowed purposefully and noticeably by armed soldiers wielding M-16 rifles. Interestingly, an American made arm.
The complex intricacy of Oman’s population is apparent but not always clear. Values and beliefs tend to break down and solidify over various thin cultural fault lines. It is a perfect example of the care that should be taken when attempting to label and declare what is right and wrong for a nation’s people. Perhaps the United States’ previous sultan should have gone on a study abroad trip in his youth.
Now to some more personal events:
First and foremost, my experience here has been altered in an incredible way. I attended an ‘Iftir’ dinner at the local mosque near my house…I met a few men and spoke as much Arabic as I could. The next day as I was walking to the store and a kid about my age flagged me down and said…”Haaayy brother, I’ve been looking for you…”
Uhhh, yah I’ve been looking for you too…
The kid is the son of a doctor I met at the mosque behind my house…his father had told him to look for me and show me around Oman. As is the case when you are alone in a foreign country, you take the friends you can get. So, I dropped everything I was doing and followed him on a walk around the neighborhood. We talked for a while awkwardly about Islam and Saddam Hussein. Did you know that the former Iraqi Gov. was Bathist…maybe you did…but did you know they were a secular regime and would never have sided with Muslim fundamentalists. I sure didn’t.
For privacy purposes I’ll call my new buddy ‘Al-Jisr’. (The Bridge). Initially our relationship was based on the fact that his father told him to show me around Oman. However, as we have seen more and more of one another I can truly say that we are friends. ‘A-Jisr’ is a devout Muslim and a Swahili Omani. It is interesting to be friends with a Muslim. We do not talk about physical relations with women, or drinking, the sports we like are different, we dress differently, and he speaks fluent Arabic and English and is into physics and engineering. It has been eye opening for me to develop a friendship with ‘Al-Jisr’ to say the least.
We talk about politics…philosophy…psychology…love. Muslim men who pride themselves on being spiritual tend to discuss deep issues pertaining to the fabric of life when engaged in social situations. Similarly, Islam is always on the table as a possible discussion topic. ALWAYS. When faced with a situation where you must hold a conversation with a Muslim…just ask anything you can think of about Islam…odds are they were potty trained while memorizing Qur’anic versus and growing up as a Muslim male generally means idolizing local religious clerics and their teachings in an effort to impress one’s male elders. Muslims over the age of 20 are all self-proclaimed religious historians and preaching to foreigners about one’s religious tenets in contention with the failures of the West must be a common dream that I have so humbly and silently been able to fulfill time and time again. **NOTE:** ‘Al-Jisr’ has never done this, his knowledge of Islam is like a deep ocean but he only asserts himself on the matter when I show curiosity. We talk about many other mutually interesting topics that stretch far and wide beyond religion. Before I talk about him, I need to illustrate how unique his perspective on the West and towards me seems to be.
I sound a little negative about the cultural trait within Muslim males to want to preach, simply because of a few recent bad experiences I have had with blatant Anti-Americanism and Islamic propaganda. As an elder Muslim recently exclaimed to me, “A few bad apples has the ability to spoil the bunch.” (He was referring to American journalists who misconstrue facts for anti-Arab pro-Jew political ends.)
I fully understand the desire and cultural necessity to bring one’s son into this earth with the Qur’an in mind. I get the idea to want to share one’s beliefs with a foreigner, for that I am thankful beyond measure… but in all seriousness, when my curiosity about Islam is perceived as an open invitation for a possible conversion target… I get pissed off. Everyone immediately assumes I’m a Christian so if they begin to preach it always involves the Qur’an vs. the Bible. I haven’t read much of the Bible and really don’t have a desire to defend it with limited knowledge of its context and versus. So…I sit quietly and nod with a smile as if everything I’m hearing is on the verge of causing me a grand mental enlightenment. All the while I can’t help but teeter on the edge of a minute psychotic digression into intolerant backwater America. I exercise some discipline and resist the filthy urge, teeth gleaming white and my jaw grinding slow.
Similarly, I have had two mind altering experiences which have really shaken my faith of the pureness of the people here in Oman…I won’t name names or go into detail…basically, when someone proceeds to give me a lecture on how awful and opposite they think American values and beliefs are from the strait and narrow path of Arabian Islam simply because they know I’m a political science student from the USA…that pisses me off. It’s perfectly good for two people to have differing viewpoints and perspectives. But when someone looses sight of the fact that I care just as much about my culture as they do about theirs and when they don’t even care to think about the pains I have taken to drop my life back home and learn about their way of living thousands of miles from my loved ones as they bombard me with examples from E entertainment tonight…I get sad. E is the most widely viewed news channel in the Middle East with a focus on America. Its’ ratings top CNN over here. I’ve had two guys cite Lindsey Lohan as an example of Americans not having any respect for women as they seamlessly move into a criticism of the American media. I’m here!!! I’m trying to educate my people on your people!!! I want to know the truth about the Middle East!! Why don’t you feel the same way about America? Frustration abound.
Omanis are not better than Americans. Americans are not better than Omanis. We are simply different. But in the minds of a few ignorant fools, different morphs into diametrically opposed and without a centered and self-confident individual like myself who can respect native sensitivities…punches get thrown.
I used to be ashamed of an alleged image that Americans had abroad, loud obnoxious and arrogant materialists who slash through culturally sensitive brush with a razor sharp credit card. Ok that may be some people…but as far as I’m concerned insensitive people who don’t care to find the facts as they thrive off of a fad that says making fun of a different people is cool and sociable exist everywhere. Even in a place that at face value seems as completely and benevolently tolerant as Oman.
For me, bad apples don’t spoil the bunch…they just make finding good ones all that much better. In the poetic words of Jim Morrison…“day destroys the night, night divides the day, try to run, try to hide, break on through to the other side…” In this universe I’m a firm believer in the necessity of opposites. Similarly, you just can’t identify the bitter without the sweet…visa versa.
Initially I could perceive that ‘Al-Jisr’ was a good guy and would be vital to providing some insight into my time in Oman especially because we are close in age. I mean heck, he has to get out more than my 6-year old home-stay brother. In time… I have found that I severely underestimated both his goodness as a person and his ability to show me the Oman he knows. At this very moment I’m still not sure what I did to deserve such a caring host who has asked for nothing in return. Although I don’t think I could give him much that he does not already have access to…
‘Al-Jisr’ is related to a long line of Swahili Omanis…part of which have married into the royal family here in Oman. I didn’t know this when I met his modest father. Most of his family shares the Al-Sa’id name with the Sultan. I only found this out recently. The first time when he showed up to my school unannounced and picked me up in an Aston-Martin V12 Vanquish I knew something interesting was taking place. I’m not kidding about this…its as ridiculous for me to experience as it is for you to read it…actually more so.
We went to ‘PDO Club’ (Petroleum Development Oman’s private resort for its employees) and ate food and played squash. PDO is the Omani government’s partnership with the Shell Corp. to export oil from the Sultanate. They Own 200 miles of the coastline and put up all of their employees (mostly British and American) in villas overlooking the Ocean. ‘Al-Jisr’s” mother is also a senior development engineer for PDO. He hopes to follow in her footsteps. He was born in Dallas Texas but moved to the UK for 10 years and has lived in Oman for 10.
‘Al-Jisr’ has introduced me to a long string of uncles within his family. Prominent religious figures and billionaire oil developers are not in short supply. This quasi-elite businessman/royalty mixture is common among the oldest Swahili families in Oman. I have met three uncles and three of his brothers. I have also met his father to whom I am also grateful. Grateful is a supreme understatement. I’m not sure what my time here would be like without ‘Al-Jisr’. I don’t care to know. Our relationship will inevitably shape my experience through the connections I make and the places I go. However, more than experiencing a side of this country that thrives on royal opulence and is extremely rare to outsiders…I am developing a close friendship with ‘Al-Jisr’ and I am learning so much more than I ever could have without him. This all sounds so fluid and natural…but just let me stress to you the absolute rarity of coming to the Middle East as an exchange student and befriending someone like ‘Al-Jisr’. I just don’t get it myself. By the grace of Allah he will change my life.
‘Al-Jisr’ and I have bonded over rap music as he likes Eminem… the other day he introduced me to Danzak…in 1997 MTV Oman opened its programming with a concert. Danzak opened for Ludacris and Akon. All three are famous in the Muscat Area.
One of the most meaningful experiences I have had as a result of my friendship has been meeting one of ‘Al-Jisr’s’ uncles for an ‘Iftir’ dinner. He is a prominent religious figure and wealthy businessman. For privacy purposes I am not going to give his name or really describe his palace in detail. I will call him ‘Shama’ or in Arabic, light.
Arabic Sheiks like ‘Shama’ love to talk about Islam and give life lessons…especially to Westerners. Like most Omanis, he immediately assumed I was Christian. We initially spoke about Islam, as his first question to me was “what do you know about Islam?” And then, “What do you find strange about Islam.” Let’s stop for a second. This is Monday afternoon around 5:00pm. ‘Al-Jisr’ picked me up from my house as I was rushing feverishly to get ready as I waited my turn to take a shower…3rd in line. We rode in the Land Rover over to his uncle’s house…passed through some large gates and parked far from the grand doors. Ok back to sitting in front of the Sheikh. I’m sweating my ass off from the walk across his lawn to the front door, my phone is vibrating in my pocket, and three other men behind him are staring at me… I’m not sure where I am other than some royal shindig and I’m pretty sure I forgot to turn the AC off in my room when I left…Hmmm, specifically and succinctly what do I know about the world’s largest and most intricate religion?
I honestly don’t remember what I said. Something about it being a respectful and tolerant religion and it being separate from shifting cultural paradigms as the word of God could not be changed by the desires of man. I have always had that ability to kind of black out and speak eloquently and with poise when I’m under pressure. I think it stems from a lot of public embarrassment as a child. It’s really a talent that I cherish. Presumably a lot of people enter the Sheikh’s home and want to consult him or see what they can get from him. I think these initial two questions were intended to feel me out and get a sense if I was even worth talking to. We spoke for the next hour and a half…breaking twice so that he could go pray as there was an ordained mosque in his home. One of the men standing behind him was a religious cleric who read the prayer verses. ‘Shama’ pretty much ran the gamut in terms of religious discussion on Islam…I asked a question and he answered, over and over. I couldn’t get enough. His answers were practical and wise. He spoke out against extremism and described in detail the methods and reasons behind the 5 pillars of Islam. He often said that Islam does not judge, “in Islam it is forbidden to judge others, even non-believers we do not judge, and instead, we take pity on them.”
As far as the opulence of the palace…well. .‘Iftir’ dinner was more food than I’ve seen the entire month of Ramadan. There were 6 different Omani beverages on the table…2 types of chicken (baked for the Omanis and fried because they knew I was coming). Seriously. It was delicious. Most notably, a 14k gold shot glass sat in front of each chair at the table…filled with water…shipped in especially from the well of Mohammed in Mecca. About as close as it gets to holy water in Islam.
However, a couple of his teachings stuck out.
First off: he said that all of this business in the US with that damn preacher who wants burn the Qur’an cause he won’t get any attention any other way is rubbish…simply rubbish…he wants to burn an English translated version of the Koran. Muslims do not recognize translations of the holy book as being holy. Only Arabic versions count. Ha! Take that shortsighted self-absorbed dick weed. Nobody over here cares what you are doing.
Now to some more meaningful lessons…
1.) In Islam, intentions are everything:
Sheikh ‘Shama’ told me a short anecdote to illustrate his point. Two men lived in a cabin in the desert. One upstairs and one down… the man upstairs would spend his days praying and praising God while the man downstairs would drink and invite prostitutes over…one day the man upstairs heard the man downstairs drinking wildly…the man downstairs was angry because he no longer got satisfaction from paying for sex. He felt alone. The man upstairs decided that he had gotten nothing from a life of prayer and he wanted to go downstairs to live like his vulgar counterpart. The downstairs dweller decided to turn to God and start a pious life. On their ways up and down, both ladders broke and both men died. The man from upstairs went to hell and the man from downstairs went to heaven. Intentions in Islam are paramount. Actions are secondary.
2.) In Islam the mother is also paramount:
A man will not go to heaven if his mother is not happy with him. In Islam one must put the happiness of the mother in front of all other desires. In the times of Mohammed, a boy could not recite the Shahadda before death because he had lost his voice…Mohammed said to go get the boys mother and see if she was happy with him. She said no. Presumably the boy went to hell. Similarly, it is often said that admission to heaven is on the foot of the mother…this is a metaphor for how low one must bow in their actions toward their mother. We are apart of our mothers and they know us best. In Islam, if a mother requests something of her son. He must obey for his souls sake.
Along with ‘Al-Jisr” and I was a friend I met the first night with ‘Al-Jisr’ named Ummar. He is a manager at company that deals in oil extraction technology and graduated from Yale some years ago before moving back to Oman. He is very bright guy. Nevertheless, his way of interacting with Sheikh ‘Shama’ was to exclaim over and over how wise the Sheikh seemed and how great his home was and how he appreciated so much the hospitality he was showing. All this was true, but it was all too obvious that he was a suck-up. The Sheikh stopped him in his tracks. “You know Mr. Ummar, the three men who were the first to go to hell?? The men who invented the Mosque, the Koran and Alms. These men did not invent these things out of praise for God, they did so because they wanted others to perceive them as pious.” The Sheikh spoke of speaking from the heart and out of genuine curiosity and not faking friendship to receive material benefit. Ummar shut up pretty quick. I was silent too.
Sheikh ‘Shama’ broke for prayer and I did some introspection of my own. I don’t want to look at my relationship with ‘Al-jisr’ like a business interest. He has a lot to offer me in the way of connections to this world. However, first and foremost he is someone who I can relate to on a personal level and I admire his humility in the face of every possible chance to be the opposite.
Sheikh ‘Shama’ was not always a Muslim. He spoke of the man who converted him to Islam in the early 50’s and of the importance of his wife in his eventual conversion. He seemed to admire his wife for her strength and the fact that “she has never missed a Haj or pilgrimage to Mecca in her life.” Although he did later say that if a woman were to raise her voice to her husband in the home, she will go to hell. Sheikh ‘Shama’ studied in the UK and founded a major telecommunications company in the Gulf region. He asked if I would come back to his home in a day and celebrate Eid with him, he offered to send a driver to pick me up so that I could make it. I plan on it. He also asked what my Muslim name would be when I converted…he said it should be Abdullah as it means servant of God. I took this as a compliment.
The way the Sheikh took me into his home and offered both food and wisdom along with his precious time combined with ‘Al-jisr’s’ willingness to open his family up to me are perfect examples of the true Omani nature. Kindness and tenacious hospitality for one’s guests are cultural traits that I will try to emulate long after I leave Oman.
Its Wednesday night around 10pm:
Today marked the celebration of Eid in the Muslim World. The month long recognition of Ramadan through fasting and increased daily prayer along with a general effort to be more pure and pious in one's actions has come to an end. Eid Mubarak!! Let’s eat!…seriously please god can we start eating breakfast now? The Muslim tradition of fasting allows believers to gain a deeply physical and emotional empathy with those who suffer from a lack of nourishment in today's world. My family did not eat or drink anything in the morning...went all day without a drop of water or a secret little nibble in the afternoon...and stoically broke the fast around 6:30 in the evening every night at a ceremony called Iftir. Fasting was difficult for me to say the least. I'm just not used to functioning physically and academically on an empty stomach. My home-stay father, a veteran cab driver who did not take abnormal time off or relinquish his duty as the family's chief bread winner; told me to be strong mentally and focus on tasks that did not involve thinking of hunger. He claimed that Allah brought him the strength to carry out his daily routine in the face of starvation. Presumably, fasting is also a catalyst for asking Allah to display his immeasurable ability to empower those who believe in his omnipotence.
From a Western lens, at first glance... Eid is similar to Christmas in terms of how much emphasis is placed on the jubilant nature of the celebration. However, Eid is not declared until the full moon is sighted…this does not happen until the night before the celebration, so imagine if you knew what week Christmas would be in…but if you only knew the day, the night before.To an American this is crazy, how could you buy everyone a unique gift in such little time. In Oman, not a problem. Scrambling for gifts really is not an issue as money is all that is given out. Little kids walk around with an Eid wallet and elders hand them bills in exchange for a respectful kiss on the hand. Perhaps, this is a reflection of modesty as well as collectivity within the Omani culture. Money is universal. The bills look the same to most young kids and without knowing the amount your neighbor is receiving, every body is getting the same gift. In the spirit of a major holiday where I come from and with my "deep Christian roots" in mind…I woke up early and put a few gifts for Marwan and Manar on the floor of the TV room with a sign that said “Merry Eid”. I'm not sure if my family understood the irony in this action but I hope they appreciated the effort on my part to commemorate a truly joyous and special occasion. I was still asleep when they opened the gifts but when I awoke, they were playing with them.
My Eid was spent with ‘Al-Jisr’s’ uncle ‘Shama’ at his home. My family embarked on a traditional quest to journey from home to home visiting elder family members and friends. I think it worked out well to celebrate a little in the morning with my family and take a picture before going our separate ways. With my self, our maid, my mother and father as well as my brother and sister...the small taxi would have been mighty uncomfortable.
At a Westerner's face value, Eid is actually more similar to Thanksgiving as it pretty much centers on family and friends eating traditional meals together. I stress meals. Chicken and rice as well as a plethora of sweets are served in abundance. Basically, as per my experience, the elders in a family prepare snacks and meals at their home for guests…the elder sits in a certain room all morning as family members and friends, and maybe even people with their sights on a few bucks drop in and wish that esteemed family member an "Eid Mubarak" and to chat for a little bit. Or to not chat. Often, guests would enter Shama's home and greet him exuberantly with respectful deference only to sit in silence for a few minutes and then leave with a short goodbye. This is the essence of being and not doing. Simply making the effort to visit and taking the time to sit with someone on Eid or presumably any other time of the year seems to be enough in the Arab world. Frivolous small talk is often see-through and not entertained. Being, is a real interaction based on what's actually happening in the room at that moment. If there's nothing of substance to be said, why say it? Similarly, actions may speak louder than words in this culture. Upon exiting the Sheik's home, everyone would stand up and shake each others hands. Respect, as well as the recognition of each and every guests value are paramount.
Eid is not a Western holiday. At first, it was easy to place the traditions that were unfolding in front of my eyes into neatly pre-made Western cubby-holes... ie. Christmas and Thanksgiving. However, one tradition opened my eyes and closed my adolescent Western storage space...the youngest male in the room, regardless of being a guest or not...was always expected to serve the elder males coffee and treats throughout their sitting. I noticed a young Omani's hands shake as he poured coffee into my cup. I wanted to say, "hey clam down I'm about your age and I can do it my self if its easier." But that would have been culturally and perceptually lackluster of me. Eid is just as much about celebrating the end of Ramadan as it is about celebrating the eldest members in one's family. In the Arab world, in contrast to the Western tradition of a child slashing through red and green paper to get to Barbie or GI Joe... grandma and grandpa are showered with the gift of their families presence. Individual appearances are worth more than material items. Youth is secondary to wisdom. My young coffee server knew his duty, but he also knew the honor in serving one's elders through a time honored tradition.
All morning different types of people filtered in and out of the Sheikh’s home. Friends, family, friends of friends, Ministers of state, judges, religious clerics, students…a lot of people, I stopped counting at 65. I sat right next to ‘Shama’. I would field him with a question or two about Islam and our conversations would be broken by visitors about every 10 minutes. The Sheikh also took my curiosity for Islam as me saying that I eventually wanted to convert to the religion…but he told me he understood that things like this would take time and that it would not come with outside pressure. This was refreshing and it was nice to have such a kind and wise man to answer my questions. Plus I felt some rare humility being the only one sitting next to him all morning. He would introduce me as his young American friend who recently converted to Islam under his guidance. Islam is a universal bonding mechanism in the Arab world. Brothers stand for brothers and sisters for sisters. I was well received.
'Shama' would ask his guests to speak to me in Arabic so that I could respond and impress them…I did. And thus I turned into a newly righteous American novelty. I didn’t mind. Sheikh ‘Shama’ seemed to be having a great time. He said I was part of his family and offered to help me with my research for school in any way possible. I’m going to do a research project on Islam where I need to conduct interviews… per Shama's connections I’m going to get to meet the Grand Mutfi… he’s in charge of determining how the Omani government interprets Islam in its policies. Nobody gets to meet the Mutfi!! The Shiekh sat in his chair for about 5 hours receiving guests and handing a select few of them a couple bills worth 20 OMR ($60). I saw him give a 7-year old girl 65 dollars. We would break for snacks every now and then to keep ‘Shama’ from falling asleep. I ate breakfast, lunch and dinner at the Sheik’s house. OH! And because I was “newly converted,” I got to go into the mosque and pray with the Muslim men of the neighborhood. Let’s just say it was terrifying at first but ultimately transcended into a state of unfamiliar calmness. Other than that I won’t describe it. Non-Muslims stay out.
