A long holiday weekend in Oman. 40 years since the Sultan striped power away from his father and has led a successfully peaceful regime ever since. I was hoping for fireworks, dancing in the streets, but no such jubilation seems to be taking place in this windy fishing town. So, I begin my long weekend like I begin most every day, with music.
LCD Soundsystem blasts out of miniature Logitech speakers as I dance around my sand dusted tile floors, and an orphaned desert dog circles around in my footsteps. News drowns on in the background, repeating information I have already heard 30 times today; Obama has signed a much anticipated new bill, Pakistan and India continue to stare stoney-eyed at one another, an Indian cricket player has done something sport worthy, commentators and analysts eternally argue about what to do in regards to Afghanistan, Iraq, North Korean sanctions, the oil spill, the economy... do I really need to continue? No more! TV, AC – off, dog out, music, book and towel grabbed, door slammed shut and locked.
Crass spews punk prophetic as I cruise up the Arabian coast at 130km/h. Destination; Turtle Beach Ras Al Haad, a small resort at the joining of the Arabian Sea and The Gulf of Oman. Small, shack-like shelters provide the perfect eco-tourism experience - fully equipped with buzzing flies and insatiable heat. Tourists from all over come for the weekend, to sail, bask in the sun and relax at this desert oasis. I prefer to go for the day; lounge under palm umbrellas, swim in the clear sea waters, watch the Indian, European, Chinese tourists play volleyball and giggle in the humid summer day ... then drive, sand-kissed back to Sur into the 7 o'clock sunset, windows rolled down, AC off. Nothing but music and desert surrounding me as I speed about in the desert, past painted tiger rocks and four tree jungles. This Thursday I have spent three reflective hours on the beach; reading, observing, swatting flies and swimming out past the barrier rope and over to the rocks to spy on crabs. I watch a young family with two small children take photos of each other in the sand, and a group of multinational tourists sip coca cola and smoke cigarettes under the rickety wooden restaurant shelter. Still slightly wet and haphazardly covered, I leave the beach, smile at the guard as he lifts the red and white stripped pole for my car to pass and disappear into the eroding rusted orange dirt road. Still early, I glance down at the petrol gage... ¾ full – just enough to “safely” get lost in the desert. And so instead of turning left back onto the familiar road, I go right, into the unknown. As long as I follow the sun, I'll make it back to Sur by nightfall. I drive, and drive, in circles and figure eights through the desert, watching as the sky turns majestic reds and purples. I pass desert, mountains, abandoned buildings, Bedouin dwellings, turtle reserves, desert and yes, more desert. I slowing make my way back to the coast, to the familiarity of the dusty outskirts of Sur, past the massive wooden fishing boats in for the evening, black ninja ghosts that float in packs of three to five, and Omani boys as they play football...everywhere. Speed bumps disrupt the flow of my graceful “race car” meditation as I am forced back into reality. I am greeted by boys on the street and I smile or nod back, roll up my window to keep out the humidity, turn the AC back to 3 and slow to a stop as a herd of mangy goats cross the road in front of me.
Band of Horses serenades me as I return to the florescent lit apartment and I a smile creeps to my lips as I am reminded of past moments spent with the songs that now soothe me to sleep as I take an evening nap. Blanketed in sand, I dream of dragons and cobblestone streets, awash in glitter and unattainable treats.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Floating through the midnight wind
Anyone who has ever walked down an empty beach in the black of night, knows the magical enticement this act will then have on a person for the rest of their lives, and will also understand the frustration at being so close, yet so far away from taking pleasure in the moon kissed sand between one's toes.
I love the chitter chatter of daytime existence, being acknowledged and spoken to as a fellow member of human kind has always been a custom I am fond of. However, there comes a time, when I desire nothing more, than to slip silently out my front door, may that door reside in Poland, Oman, the USA, or anywhere else in this overstimulating world. I envision myself ghost like, invisible to all, except the passing cats and dogs which sense my presence and nod, or stylishly saunter past accordingly. Usually, I am very good at this. I possess a keen knack at slipping past, unnoticed. I know this may however be completely fabricated in my own mind, and may merely be me, shutting out the rest of the world, letting them slip past unnoticed, as I come off bitch-like and aloof... either way, it is not something I can seem to manage here, in Oman. I can not walk down a dusty street lamp lit street, unnoticed. I can not transform into my preferred invisible night form and float silently to the calling shore. I smell the sea air, see the darkness of the water and I can practically hear the surf, as it pushes it's sea life, back and forth, in a soothing lullaby fashion.
I walk out my door and eyes instantly turn to me. Day, night, men are everywhere in these streets and they watch me, as I move – most, silently, some with whistles or insinuating comments. Manners they would never put forth in front of an Omani woman, but my presence breaks all rules. They're harmless in their prying eyes and mimicked American movie slang, but sometimes it takes all my power not to haughtily tell them to “fuck off”, as I have been so rightfully trained to do, growing up in the US.
There are three ways men view western women here (that I have at least been able to assess). The first is that of an easy woman of lose western morals, and lack of values. Yes, she will sleep with anything that has a cock... and yes, that person should probably be me. The second is of debauchery – a viperous, devil worshiping (or Christian) whore. Since you do not abide by the laws of Allah, you are evil and NOT to be trusted. (Thankfully, this is a mindset rarely experienced here). The third and most common is of simple curiosity. While some of the first beliefs might still be present, they are more like teenage boys in a video game shop... overstimulated and super curious at how the, just released game consul works. It's more or less innocent and even sometimes rather endearing.. and I often find myself feeding into these little boy antics.
Neither of these men however, are what I want to deal with while attempting a midnight stroll to the beach. So, out of frustration for my lacking anonymity, I sit in this air conditioned flat, smelling of Indian cooking, I listen to a remix of Abdullah Ibrahim and drink the Campari I obtained through duty free.
A sand storm begins to kick up vengeance outside these walls, so perhaps it was a much better decision to stay indoors this evening anyways...
I love the chitter chatter of daytime existence, being acknowledged and spoken to as a fellow member of human kind has always been a custom I am fond of. However, there comes a time, when I desire nothing more, than to slip silently out my front door, may that door reside in Poland, Oman, the USA, or anywhere else in this overstimulating world. I envision myself ghost like, invisible to all, except the passing cats and dogs which sense my presence and nod, or stylishly saunter past accordingly. Usually, I am very good at this. I possess a keen knack at slipping past, unnoticed. I know this may however be completely fabricated in my own mind, and may merely be me, shutting out the rest of the world, letting them slip past unnoticed, as I come off bitch-like and aloof... either way, it is not something I can seem to manage here, in Oman. I can not walk down a dusty street lamp lit street, unnoticed. I can not transform into my preferred invisible night form and float silently to the calling shore. I smell the sea air, see the darkness of the water and I can practically hear the surf, as it pushes it's sea life, back and forth, in a soothing lullaby fashion.
I walk out my door and eyes instantly turn to me. Day, night, men are everywhere in these streets and they watch me, as I move – most, silently, some with whistles or insinuating comments. Manners they would never put forth in front of an Omani woman, but my presence breaks all rules. They're harmless in their prying eyes and mimicked American movie slang, but sometimes it takes all my power not to haughtily tell them to “fuck off”, as I have been so rightfully trained to do, growing up in the US.
There are three ways men view western women here (that I have at least been able to assess). The first is that of an easy woman of lose western morals, and lack of values. Yes, she will sleep with anything that has a cock... and yes, that person should probably be me. The second is of debauchery – a viperous, devil worshiping (or Christian) whore. Since you do not abide by the laws of Allah, you are evil and NOT to be trusted. (Thankfully, this is a mindset rarely experienced here). The third and most common is of simple curiosity. While some of the first beliefs might still be present, they are more like teenage boys in a video game shop... overstimulated and super curious at how the, just released game consul works. It's more or less innocent and even sometimes rather endearing.. and I often find myself feeding into these little boy antics.
Neither of these men however, are what I want to deal with while attempting a midnight stroll to the beach. So, out of frustration for my lacking anonymity, I sit in this air conditioned flat, smelling of Indian cooking, I listen to a remix of Abdullah Ibrahim and drink the Campari I obtained through duty free.
A sand storm begins to kick up vengeance outside these walls, so perhaps it was a much better decision to stay indoors this evening anyways...
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Back in the Desert
10 July 2010
Hmmm, so I suppose it has been almost a year since my last blog. Apparently, I seem to only have the desire to partake in this silly act of blogging when I'm living in the desert, removed from the comforting embrace of my traitorously enchanted little Krakow.
Perhaps I will write more about my Krakowian life at some point. But for now, I write about the present, and today, I find myself opening my eyes, again in Oman. Waking to the soft buzz of the AC after 16 hours of uninterrupted sleep, I peer out the small sand covered window in the corner of this awkward apartment, try to do yoga on a slippery floor (left yoga mat in the chaos of moving), shower, make coffee and sift through the 300+ middle eastern satellite channels. Iranian cooking show, news form Iraq, Kuwait, Saudi, Dubai, Yemen, etc...but I always return to Aljazeera, and currently am watching a highly heated debate on Iraq Now... ah yes, nothing like listening to overweight diplomats yell back and forth, never answering the direct questions that are put before them.
Today is Saturday, so normally I should begin the working week. However, blessed with a religious holiday, I have a day to catch up on sleep and acclimate to life in the hot, humid Middle East (or shall I say, to the contrast between hot and humid, and stale, air conditioned air ). The past two days are a tad blurry. Left my apartment of two years on Thursday, had breakfast with friends who will have moved to South East Asia by the time I return, was offered a job contract for Kurdistan, enthusiastically decided to take it, did further research at the airport on the company... then, due to their draconian teaching methods, disappointedly decided to 'probably' not take the position. My unwavering optimism often gets me excited about a future that is too good to be true, but alas, I refuse to be deterred. Anyway, despite a stunningly veracious hangover, self inflicted by a night of farewells and celebrations, my body refused to let me sleep on the six hour plane ride to Abu Dhabi, only to soundly crash on the short 45 min flight to Muscat, missing most of the Abu Dhabi coastline, of course. In Oman, beers, pool and Baily's? When I finally arrived at my borrowed apartment, I half curiously, half asleep smiled at an attractive man as he walked down the stairs, unlocked the door, noted the starkness of my new 'home', and fell asleep in my clothes, watching Muholland Drive on channel 223.
A wee bit different from my life here a year ago. Ascetically, the June cyclone and other unseasonal storms have slightly altered the seaside landscape,moving around earth, and leaving the air temporarily clean of blowing dust. The two colleagues I spent my time with last year are both gone – one to the UAE, the other to northern Oman. The one remaining familiar face, is that of an American woman who has lived in the Middle East for some 30 years? Her family was all killed off in the Syrian Lebanon conflict in the 80's, leaving her scattered and broken, with an outlook on life that is a far cry from optimistic, but a fascinating character, to say the least. I am living in a tiny, dark apartment, in a tiny, dusty city, far removed from the comforts of home. The school is riddled with disorganization, and communication and power issues abound, making the return to this position, anything from idyllic. But as long as I am paid (which is another tricky issue), I think I can handle just about anything... hahaha... we shall see.
Hmmm, so I suppose it has been almost a year since my last blog. Apparently, I seem to only have the desire to partake in this silly act of blogging when I'm living in the desert, removed from the comforting embrace of my traitorously enchanted little Krakow.
Perhaps I will write more about my Krakowian life at some point. But for now, I write about the present, and today, I find myself opening my eyes, again in Oman. Waking to the soft buzz of the AC after 16 hours of uninterrupted sleep, I peer out the small sand covered window in the corner of this awkward apartment, try to do yoga on a slippery floor (left yoga mat in the chaos of moving), shower, make coffee and sift through the 300+ middle eastern satellite channels. Iranian cooking show, news form Iraq, Kuwait, Saudi, Dubai, Yemen, etc...but I always return to Aljazeera, and currently am watching a highly heated debate on Iraq Now... ah yes, nothing like listening to overweight diplomats yell back and forth, never answering the direct questions that are put before them.
Today is Saturday, so normally I should begin the working week. However, blessed with a religious holiday, I have a day to catch up on sleep and acclimate to life in the hot, humid Middle East (or shall I say, to the contrast between hot and humid, and stale, air conditioned air ). The past two days are a tad blurry. Left my apartment of two years on Thursday, had breakfast with friends who will have moved to South East Asia by the time I return, was offered a job contract for Kurdistan, enthusiastically decided to take it, did further research at the airport on the company... then, due to their draconian teaching methods, disappointedly decided to 'probably' not take the position. My unwavering optimism often gets me excited about a future that is too good to be true, but alas, I refuse to be deterred. Anyway, despite a stunningly veracious hangover, self inflicted by a night of farewells and celebrations, my body refused to let me sleep on the six hour plane ride to Abu Dhabi, only to soundly crash on the short 45 min flight to Muscat, missing most of the Abu Dhabi coastline, of course. In Oman, beers, pool and Baily's? When I finally arrived at my borrowed apartment, I half curiously, half asleep smiled at an attractive man as he walked down the stairs, unlocked the door, noted the starkness of my new 'home', and fell asleep in my clothes, watching Muholland Drive on channel 223.
A wee bit different from my life here a year ago. Ascetically, the June cyclone and other unseasonal storms have slightly altered the seaside landscape,moving around earth, and leaving the air temporarily clean of blowing dust. The two colleagues I spent my time with last year are both gone – one to the UAE, the other to northern Oman. The one remaining familiar face, is that of an American woman who has lived in the Middle East for some 30 years? Her family was all killed off in the Syrian Lebanon conflict in the 80's, leaving her scattered and broken, with an outlook on life that is a far cry from optimistic, but a fascinating character, to say the least. I am living in a tiny, dark apartment, in a tiny, dusty city, far removed from the comforts of home. The school is riddled with disorganization, and communication and power issues abound, making the return to this position, anything from idyllic. But as long as I am paid (which is another tricky issue), I think I can handle just about anything... hahaha... we shall see.
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