The Adhan

Working upstairs, I can hear my host family -all the brothers, sisters, inlaws, aunties, and children-bustling about below.  They're laughing and playing and arguing and chatting just as you would expect any other family to do together on the weekend.

Then the Adhan starts.

Clear and resonant, the call to prayer overpowers the noises of my house, and those of the nearby souq, as everyone drops what they're doing to listen and to pray.

Five times a day, the Adhan calls out a reminder to practicing muslims.  Each one sounds different -not only do different sects of Islam have their own styles of recitation, but individual voices lend their own flavor as well.  The one near my house is recited by a man with a bright, bittersweet voice, whose singing style puts it in a minor key.  The one near the Learning Center is much more gruff, but still powerful, with no cracks or hesitation.

The Adhan is an art form.  Many famous classical Arab singers had their roots in the Adhan -they might have been trained as one, or grew up around family members whose role in the community was to broadcast from the minarets.  (Those self-same towers of spirituality and music that have been banned in Switzerland.)

I don't pray with my family, but I turn of my music, stop practicing the ukulele, or end a conversation whenever the call starts.  It's the respectful thing to do, and it gives me another chance to appreciate an art form that I will desperately miss.

Party Bus and Beach Buddies

An extraordinary (yet somehow typical) evening in Muscat:

Tyler, Ethan, Linh and I reached our productivity saturation points, and after hanging out at the center for a little too long (watching Jackie Chan's Drunken Master, of course) we decided to go to Souq Seeb for some mushkek and a good time.  After dropping off Linh at the main highway, Tyler, Ethan and I started hoofing it towards the souq.

"Hoofing it" in Muscat can mean any combination of hitch-hiking, taking taxis, and flagging down buses in Muscat. (The only time actual hooves might be involved is if you were to be dropped off next to one of the many herds of semi-domestic goats in the suburbs.) In this instance, we flagged down a baisa bus and squeezed in next to a crowd of Indian laborers for the ride.


A baisa bus is a privately owned van, usually a fifteen-seater, (although as many as twenty have been seen crammed in there) that follows a semi-set route at the discretion of the driver.  They're cheap as hell, but if you're trying to get anywhere off the main highway you're going to have a hard time.  Luckily for us, Souq Seeb is on the main drag.


We cheerfully piled into the bus, and realized shortly afterward that this particular bus driver had taken the care to personalize his means of living.  The interior lights were a cool shade of pink/purple, like one might find in a dance club, but the crowning glory of the vehicle was the sub-woofer.  Sandwiched in between sweaty guys just off the clock from the road repair crews, we bounced into the souq to the tunes of American R&B classics, our faces a-glow in the atmospheric lighting.

Stopping just past the gold and jewelry district, we hopped off the bus and, after the guys had complimented our driver on his excellent sound system (he stroked the sub-woofer appreciatively as Ethan and Tyler pointed to it saying "Hatha sub-woofer?  Ma'shallah!") we started the hike towards our holy grail: Mushkek.

Mushkek is grilled meat on a stick.  Never fail to appreciate the beauty of something so deliciously simple.

On the way there we walked along the beach, taking in the fresh air and people watching.  In true Omani style, there were groups of men sitting together in circles on roll-out mats, drinking tea and coffee out of portable containers and eating dates.  Passing a large group of twenty or so, Ethan called out "Salam wa lekoum!" "Lekoum wa salam!" was the overpowering response, as they all called out the proper answer.  Continuing the polite exchange, the guys asked "Keifa halekoum?"  "How are you?"  As one, the Omanis called back "Alhamdellah.  Tefadl!!!"  "Well, thanks to god.  Come, join us!"

I love the way that can be expressed in two words.  God and hospitality -arguably the two most important aspects of Omani culture.  And they meant it, too.  None of this Anglo-American "Oh, won't you come over for tea?  Oh, you can't?  Oh, what a pity."  No, these guys really wanted to have us join their already-huge group.

Well, they really wanted the guys to join.  I probably would have been welcome too, but it would not have been entirely kosher for me to do so.  So, in a courtly gesture that earned him applause from the seated men, (no joke.  This actually happened.) Ethan said "Oh, but the lady, we're taking her to dinner."  Impressed with our Arabic and our knowledge of Omani politesse, they waved us on our way.

Eventually, we made it to our final destination.  This particular mushkek stand is frequented by the shebab in their fancy cars and designer sunglasses, so to the sounds of more American R&B and by the light reflecting off the mustangs, we ordered our food from a guy who thought our Arabic and cameras were the funniest damn thing he'd seen all day.  After making a promise to post a video of him dancing behind the grill on youtube, we took our greasy grilled meat sticks and sat down on the sea wall for dinner.

A good night.

"When is he going to start DELVING?" I asked myself.

I have fallen in love with the interview process.

For my final project, I am doing research that involves, among many other things, hoofing it around this sweltering city to interview people on the Omani news media.  My interviews are sometimes scheduled, sometimes not, sometimes useful, somtimes repetitive, sometimes smooth, and sometimes wrought with problems and those little issues that seem so small on their own, but in greater numbers seem like a swarm of insects -loud, invasive, and oddly terrifying.

They're always interesting.

I love the improvisational nature of these things.  I go in with my neat outfit and my questionnaire and my best "Hi, I'm a perky student face!" and then end up having to throw half my assumptions out the window.  Most of the time I start making up questions on the fly -a few times I've had to forget my set interview entirely, and follow a train of thought that they were dead-set on expressing, and that I was reasonably sure could be applied to my project.

People never act the way you expect them to.  I've been struck by how smart or dense or compassionate or courageous or cold or insightful people can be.  And I love watching people as they're interviewed -maybe a little nervous at first, gradually getting more comfortable, maybe getting frustrated at my ability to understand their point, smiling as they hit that perfect metaphor that brings their statement together.

Recording my interviews and transcribing them afterward also gives me a chance to examine myself.  My speech patterns are falling under scrutiny, (I have a tendency towards trailing off and not finishing a question, something I'll be working on.  Although I have decided that I do have a pleasant speaking voice) and I've been working on techniques to put people at ease.  Smile, nod, seem interested, be encouraging, but don't express an opinion (and how do you avoid it when they ask for yours?), take note of what they're focusing on so you can steer things toward, or away from, certain subjects and get the interview you need. 

Ethical questions come up as well.  Do I take advantage of being a cute woman?  I've noticed (by accident) that men will sometimes get more expressive and more enthusiastic if I'm acting more interested (and maybe a little impressed) with their opinion.  So far smiling and putting expression into my "Really?  Do tell!" comments seems to be safe, but I think there is a line there that can't be crossed. 


Even the transcribing process has its gems.  It makes for a long, and often tedious, activity, but on more than one occasion I've given up typing entirely to listen to a particularly fascinating anecdote. 

(Ambient noises, though, have become my deadliest enemy.  I'm reasonably convinced that the man coughing in the background of Interview D was purposefully doing so at the most inopportune moments.)

Maybe this will translate into a career someday.  I've become fascinated by journalism -history, theory, ethics, and the ever-important current events that are covered- and I'm seriously considering pursuin journalism post graduation.  For now, though, I have to get this project done.  two and a half weeks to go, about 7 interviews left, and 30 pages to write.  Wish me luck.

Debating Dubai

I have a confession to make.  I liked Dubai.

Even typing the words makes my New-England Liberal-Arts sensibilities cry out with anguish.  "Noooo!" they say.  "What about the flagrant abuse of imported labor... the fiscal irresponsibility... the mind-boggling environmental impact... the capitalism run rampant!?"  It's hard to admit, really.  I've not liked Dubai for so long, changing my mind is hard.

Having lived in Muscat makes it easier, though.

In the words of one of our lecturers in Dubai, "Muscat is nice.  Boring, but nice."  After a few months living in what is basically a few downtown areas, shopping malls, and suburbs connected by one very long highway, the urban nature of Dubai was ridiculously fun.  They have a metro system, for crying out loud.  A clean, reliable, cheap metro system.  And metered taxis!  I didn't have to bargain for a few minutes before getting in a cab, only to have the driver try to change the price upon reaching the destination!  And if the distance was short enough, walking was possible.  Dubai is much less humid that Muscat, making the heat more managable, and there are well-used sidewalks that make you feel like you're a part of the landscape, rather than the freakish exception to the "drive everywhere" rule. 

Dubai also feels safe.  Not that Muscat feels particularly dangerous, but we were walking and exploring and roaming about without any of the anxiety you would expect in a new city.  People were polite, the streets were clean, and due to the international nature of the city, I didn't stand out that much.  Even the seedier parts of the city felt okay.  When I accidentally got in an elevator with a prostitute, she politely asked me how to get to a particular floor.

I don't think I could live there.  All the previous arguments against Dubai still stand, and need to be dealt with.  But as was asked in our post-trip discussion, why does Dubai get all the hate?  Can any of the big American cities claim to not have issues with human trafficking, or terrible environmental consequences?  Why are the building projects looked at as a bad thing, when Dubai is becoming a center for architectural innovation and modern Islamic art?  Why do we have to view Dubai's capitalism as a problem, and not as a viable alternative to the problems that plague the region, like extremism and economic stagnation?

Food for thought. 

Speaking of which, Dubai has sushi.  Which may have affected my opinion somewhat.

Back in the Saddle Again

Hey all!  It's been a long time... between finals, my computer crashing (and the subsequent quest for a competent computer technician -if you ever want to hear me rant, ask me about that one), moving to a new host family, and traveling to Qatar and the U.A.E, I've been having a little trouble keeping up to date with my blog posts. 

But here I am!

Now that my classes have ended, I've entered the month-long Independent Study Project period.  During this time I'll be conducting interviews, doing research at whichever learning institute will have me, and writing a 30 page opus on a subject specific to Oman.  Academia, here I come.  Hopefully I'll have the chance to travel around a bit, too!  And update my blog, naturally.

Thanks for reading, folks.  I'm glad to be back.

Shebab!

While they guys in my program are great (I love all five of you, really) I finally got what I crave in every country.  Bro-time.

Bro-time is very hard to find in Oman.  The sexes are, to varying degrees in different circumstances, separated.  Until this weekend I had met a few young men (shebab) my age, but hadn’t hung out with any of them.  That would be a breach of etiquette offensive to my host family, and suggestive to the men I would have been spending time with. 

Thankfully, this weekend was a different situation.  I’m still not exactly sure how or why, but there is a group of young men who have adopted SIT Oman as their special buddies, and this applies to both genders.  Us ladies were wary at first of talking to them –as is culturally appropriate, and for the best in most occasions- but by the end of our short trip we were joking with them, sitting next to them without hesitation, and having fun.  We definitely learned things, as they went out of their way to teach us about traditional dancing, food, and local history.  But they also went out of their way to get us a cake.  A cake with a picture of the whole group printed on the top, the same picture they printed out for each of us.  I don’t know if you’ve ever heard 13 exchange students and their responsible adult going “awwwwww!” in unison, but it is a heartwarming experience.

I know that this was not truly bro-time, as I am not a bro, and that if I were to return as an individual the implications of me spending time with so many men could be a little much for any of us to handle.  There was definitely safety in numbers.  But for a weekend, it was wonderful to spend time with some truly kind, interesting, curious, and funny young Omanis.  These guys were great.  Thanks a million (alf shukr), shebab.

Whither Wander Thou

While nearly absent in cosmopolitan Muscat, witchcraft plays a huge role in the southern regions of Oman.

Islam, literally interpreted, does have room for a kind of mysticism.  Jinn (the original inspiration for the orientalist idea of a “genie”) are very specifically defined in the Qur’an as early creations of God who, like humans, can be Muslim or Christian or Pagan or Scientologists, but who have neither “zaman” nor “makan.”  No time, nor place.  Crafted of fire, they are invisible to the eyes of humans, even if what they do in our presence isn’t.

However, it seems that modern Islam in Muscat doesn’t think much, or often, of Jinn and witchcraft.  The only time I’ve heard anyone mention it up here was when a young woman referred to her stepmother as “that Jinn”, much to the amusement of her sister.

This isn’t the case in Dhofar, the southern region.  While I was there I heard stories of witchcraft and curses cast in just the last few months, spoke to well-educated, well-traveled, successful adults who spoke of the presence of Jinn and witches in no uncertain terms, and to young men who flat-out refuse to be in certain areas of evil reputation past sunset.  In Dhofar, witchcraft isn’t just an abstraction.  It’s something that dries up wells after a blood sacrifice, makes or breaks fortunes, something that leaves bruises and tangible evidence and that can kill.  You don’t know of witchcraft in the south, you know the witches.

Many of my peers here have had trouble reconciling this with the air-conditioned, modern settings in which it was expressed.  However, I can’t feel the same way.  In Hawaii, I keep away from what is kapu.  There are sacred spaces.  If I were to find a Hawaiian burial site I’d call a priest before I called an archaeologist, and if I could whistle, I definitely wouldn’t do so at night.  My upbringing was on the haole end of local-haole, but even my mainland parents instilled in me a sense of self-preservation specific to this kind of belief.  There are some things you just don’t mess with.  I can’t say that I know any witches back home, but in both Hawaii and in Oman, if someone tells me that bad, unexplainable things happen to whomever stays here after dark, then I’ll be happy to head back to the hotel room, thank you.