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.
No comments:
Post a Comment