Muskat Love

Today we went to Muskat, a major city in Oman. To say the least, we weren’t expecting much. I had visions of sloe-eyed camels lumbering across mountains of shifting sand and little tribes of black-robed Bedouins camped at the local oasis. And for centuries I probably was right, but ah, what a difference a bit of oil (and natural gas) makes. Oman is rapidly coming into its own, with gleaming low-rise resorts and blindingly white two-story houses (think Mykonos, Greece) popping up along a pristine shore of glittering blue water.
Oman is a sultanate (a popular form of government in these parts) with a much-loved sultan (although to tell the truth, ALL of the sultans in the countries we’ve visited would be classified as “much loved”. I think Saddam Hussein was termed “much loved” by the locals—it’s sort of a required appellation to anyone holding ultimate power). Anyway, in Oman, according to our taxi driver, everything is free: free schooling (even university in foreign countries if you qualify), free housing, free hospitals, free government (no taxes), and so on. Of course the sultan lives like, well, a SULTAN, with immense palaces here and there and a yacht the size of a destroyer, but hey! we get free hospitals!
We took a one-hour cab ride around the area which was just enough (it was 117 degrees outside so it limited our eagerness to linger) to see Muskat and the surrounding villages. In that hour, we took in the souk (market) where Tom was fitted for an abaya (the red-checkered headdress worn by men) and I bought a hotsy-totsy silver headdress favored by belly dancers. We have visions of our own Arabian Nights scenario with Tom playing the role of sultan and me playing Scheherazade. (Sorry, kids, I know this is TMI…but I couldn’t resist).
So, after the souk we went to see the sultan’s palace (both front and rear). I was amazed at how close we were able to get to the palace. There was only one shy guard at the gate (I say “shy” because he waved off our attempt to take his picture) and the gate was propped open. Then I saw the 50 caliber machine guns mounted at the gate and realized they don’t have to worry about tourists storming the palace. Glancing around, I noticed big mounted weapons everywhere. I was amused by a woman I met later in the Laundromat here on the ship who asked if I’d seen the “water cannons” at the palace. Lady, those weren’t water cannons. It reminded me of that scene in Crocodile Dundee “That’s not a knife, THIS is a knife.”
Perched above the new palace we saw the ancient old palace, which looked like a Moorish fort carved into the towering rock hills overlooking the harbor. We would have loved to have seen the inside—no doubt those three-foot thick walls of rock could talk!
We went past mosque after mosque but there was no going into mosques today as it’s Friday, their holy day and no infidels will be allowed to darken the door on Fridays. Fine with me. As you see in the photo above, black burquas were the order of the day for nearly every woman we saw. This is not cosmopolitan Dubai, with equal parts western dress or Arab dress. Here, all the men wear the long white dress and jaunty “pillbox hat” and all the women are shrouded from head to toe in billowing black. To say I felt “exposed” in my long khaki skirt and green (short-sleeved) tee-shirt would be an understatement. After all, they can see my hair! my chin! Heaven forbid, my forearms!
But everywhere we turned the streets were swept and the city seemed calm and welcoming. It was in sharp contrast to Dubai which seemed business-friendly—Oman seemed people friendly. We drove out to the old fort and then on to the village of Sidab, where little white houses huddle against the stark rocky hills overlooking the sea. Then we went further, out to Bustan, to the “palace.” We thought the driver was telling us that he was taking us to yet another of the sultan’s palaces, but once we arrived we realized we were mistaken. It was the Bustan Palace Hotel, a stunning 95-star (okay, maybe not 95, but some really big number) Intercontinental hotel perched above a pristine beach out in the hinterlands that would be my destination of choice if I were on the run from drug traffickers or the IRS. We popped inside and were dumb-struck by the lobby. Tom went to the front desk to ask for a rate card and was greeted by a smiling, yet unambiguous look that meant, “If you have to ask the price, you can’t afford to stay here.” The guy gave Tom a business card and suggested he look them up on the Internet. We slipped outside, only to find that our humble cab had been relegated to the far reaches of the parking lot. Only Bentleys and Rolls are allowed to dawdle at the front entrance.
We zoomed back to the cruise port, accompanied by the driver’s ongoing praise of the sultan. It seemed maybe the guy’s car was bugged or he was hoping we’d yell, “Praise Mohammed, peace be upon him, the Sultan’s The MAN!” as we exited the taxi and the driver would get a prize. Needless to say, we didn’t say anything but Marsalam (thank you) as we paid and made our way to the shaded area to wait for our shuttle back to the ship. The shaded area cut that 117 down to something reasonable—say, 110.
But as we say at home, it was a dry heat. And it was a short, but memorable romp in Oman. In other words, we liked it. And if the bank ever makes a mistake and inadvertently wires millions from some mobster into our account we know just the place to lay low for a while.