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.

Living on the Edge

For lack of a better phrase, I’ve been having a bit of an identity crisis.  Just a bit of one, though!  No need for concerned emails.  (Mom, I’m looking at you.)

I suppose I’ve been living at the edge of one for years.  It started in high school, when I realized that no matter how much I might consider Hawaii to be my home, I will never look like I was born in Hilo.  In France I remained an outsider, first as the obvious American, then as the person who could pass as European but would always feel like she was, to a certain extent, observing rather than participating.  Returning to Hawaii didn’t change things much, since my life experiences had so drastically changed from those of most of my peers.  Going to college meant spending time with people of similar goals and education, but I’m never going to feel like I am completely integrated into the culture of Western Massachusetts.  (It’s the hugging thing.  To hell with WASPishness, I need physical contact!)

In Oman it’s not much of a surprise that I feel the same way.  No one will ever mistake me for an Omani-born citizen, no matter how well I can wrap a head-scarf or how good my Arabic could get.  At the same time, I don’t see myself as a garden-variety expat, or even like some other exchange students.  After living with an Omani family and making such a study of the culture, when I see westerners behaving in a way that completely ignores the conservative values I’m coming to respect it makes me cringe.  Seeing anyone’s knees at the mall, for example, has turned into something that my classmates and I point out and discuss in hushed tones.  Heaven forfend we see tourists drinking or being romantically affectionate in public.

Honestly, I like feeling a little out of place.  It gives me a chance to observe, to think about the bigger picture, and early-high-school-poetry aside, it isn’t actually lonely.  Everywhere I’ve lived I’ve made amazing friends, from any of the cultural borderlands.  So when I get back to the states I’m going to wear a sundress, fix myself a gin and tonic, and reminisce about all the great parts of Oman.  The view is better from the edge, anyway.

What’d I say?

Inzain! (Great!) I’ve reached the bit where I can occasionally speak Arabic!

Some of you might recall that I’ve been taking Arabic for almost three years, and could be thinking, “It’s about time you can occasionally speak Arabic, Sydney… for Christ’s sake.”  But here’s the thing –I wasn’t studying Arabic the way most people really speak it.  I was studying FusHa, the international lingua franca of the Middle East and North Africa.  Exceedingly formal, it’s essentially Qur’anic Arabic with concessions made to modern vocabulary needs.  It’s the language of internationally broadcasted news stations, business, diplomacy, and academia.  And because no one country can really claim it, there is no set accent.  The accent you use to speak FusHa largely depends on how thick your professor’s native accent was.

Cue utter confusion upon reaching a country with regional vocabulary, pronunciation, and verb usage.

Now, if anyone were writing me memos in Arabic, I could have communicated quite effectively.  But Omani colloquialisms have been leaving me dazed and confused (for so long it’s not true… I’ve been on a Led Zeppelin bender recently) for several weeks.  The word I’ve been using for “what” all this time, “ma”, means “no” or “not” in Omani.  Words like “yes”, “good”, and “why”, personal pronouns, and the pronunciation of normally-recognizable sounds are completely different here.

Cue my joy upon realizing that this week I’ve been talking to my host mom with very little trouble.

Our conversations are limited.  We aren’t discussing anything, rather asking the other about our days, chitchatting about the house, and keeping each other informed.  But when she tries to give me more rice (I learned “rooz”, here they say “aiysh”) I can say “no, I ate a big snack this afternoon at school, thanks.  No really!  Augh I think I was smaller before I arrived in Oman…” and when it turns out that I have to stay at school all evening, I can say “Tomorrow a group of students from Jordan is coming to school, so I’ll have to stay there for the evening.  The bus will bring me back home when we’re done, though.”  I can say those things in FusHa, but now I can use Omani words and sentence structure to express the same thought.

While I was doing homework in the living room today my host mom came to look at my reading and asked how much of it I understood.  “A word here, a word there… not all of it, but I have my dictionary.”  “Yes, this looks hard… it’s really too bad you’re only here for three months.  After a whole year your Arabic would become much better.”  I agree completely, but for having just a few weeks under my belt I don’t think that I’m doing too badly.

Coffee, tea, or me?

Something I will definitely miss about Oman is the afternoon qahua.

After lunch, nap time, and some dilly-dallying about (no one can accuse the Omanis of being rushed or hasty) a typical weekend activity for women is driving to someones house to sit and chat with family.  Female family, of course -whether they be blood relatives or in-laws.  The location, occasion, and motivation can vary, but inevitably, we are served Omani espresso (qahua) and dates. 

Sitting on the floor, chatting and relaxing, holding babies; the women sip their coffee, snack on dates, fruit, and other sweets, and take advantage of their free time.  It's not unusual to visit a few houses in one afternoon and have the same spread at each, or to sit down at one, only to have another group of women walk in the door.

Conversation (as far as my limited Arabic permits me to tell) runs from family life to travel to politics to story-telling.  Other times there is no conversation, we just sit and relax and enjoy someones hospitality.

Thankfully, as both an honorary family member and an obvious westerner, I've had the chance to sit down for qahua with men a few times, too.  Just in the past week, two of my peers (a man and a woman) and I were invited to qahua twice while doing a field assignment -the first time in an old man's shop, the second time in his home with his nephew.  Both times the men were served first, (as was the case when I had coffee with a group of mixed family members) and I was even given an explanation as to why.  You serve big people, then smaller people, apparently.

Qahua can get a little awkward, as when a group of women realized that I can understand snippets of the conversation and abruptly stopped talking about the recent protests, or when the shop owner told me that it is good that I am dressing like an Omani woman, because then an Omani man might see me and decide that he wants me as his wife.  But I love Omani hospitality, and the ability to drop in, unannounced, on a friend with the knowledge that they'll have hot coffee waiting for you.  If I show up at your place sometime wearing a head-covering and bearing dates and oranges, now you know why.

Muslim Garb

A week ago I finally purchased an abayya.  Not to be confused with a burqa or hijab, an abayya is a long-sleeved, floor-length, loose black robe.  In most countries on the Arabian Peninsula, the abayya is worn with any variety or hair or face covering and is the standard for modest dress for women in public.  It’s one of those things that comes under criticism from people who see it as a sign of oppression –“Muslim garb,” to borrow Juan Williams’ term, that women should be able to cast off as shackles of an outdated system.

I won’t lie, I find the abayya very uncomfortable.  I’m always stepping on the front (making the buttons snap open in an Omani style peep-show) and re-adjusting my scarf, which manages to make the already-oppressive heat here seem worse.  However, men here face similar problems.  They are required, by custom and (in certain contexts) law, to wear the disdasha -a long-sleeved, ankle-length tunic that buttons tightly at the neck.  It’s always accompanied with a head-covering, too.  In the Emirates and Saudi Arabia men wear large scarves as turbans or fastened tightly around the crown with more cloth, and in Oman men wear tall embroidered caps, called kumma, often with a cashmere scarf wrapped tightly around the top.  Disdashas are generally white, it’s true, but did you see the bit where the scarf was cashmere?  Cashmere.  In the Arabian Peninsula.  Men here have to dress almost as uncomfortably and impractically as women. 

Additionally, abayyas are actually not a bad vehicle for self-expression.  The patterns vary wildly, as to the fabric choices, embellishments, and scarves.  My scarf, with bright-blue zebra print and super-imposed pink, yellow, and orange flowers, actually makes me look more Omani than not, and is downright subtle compared to some of the rhinestone-encrusted scarves I’ve seen.  Some abayyas are trimmed in patterned fabric, others have long, billowing sleeves, and quite a few are decorated with, again, the ever-present rhinestones.

I don’t envy the women here who would rather not wear one.  There is a lot of societal pressure for Muslim, Omani women to wear the abayya, and even cover their entire face in more conservative areas.  But the men who would rather not wear their “Muslim garb” are shit-outta-luck, too, and in the four weeks I’ve been here I’ve only heard one woman say anything about how upset her father would be if she wasn’t covered properly.  Most of the time, it’s women who compliment my new conservative look, who get excited to see a westerner dressing like them, and who say “throw on your abayya, we’re going out.”

Can We Stop for Ice Cream?

Last weekend was the first SIT group excursion and, due to my late arrival in Muscat, the first time I'd spent a few full days in the company of the whole group.  Orientation for the Egyptian displacements, if you will.  It was AMAZING.

On the first day we drove southeast to the Sharqiyyah region, through two hours of mountains and palm groves.  Very suddenly, the desert showed up, and after a quick drive off the highway we arrived at the camp.

These camps, it should be said, are not portable-yet-photogenic living compounds assembled by real-life nomads who carry their water supplies on the back of camels.  They're very permanent, with toilets and electricity and running water.  That being acknowledged, the tents here were actual canvas tents with thatched roofs, the dining area was an open-walled area with rugs and cushions and pretty colored lamps, and to get anywhere you had to truck up and down hills of sand.  And there are camels.

Once we got out things stowed away we piled into three old SUV's and indulged in an amazing pastime called "dune bashing."  Let me explain: take one manual transmission SUV, preferably with no bells and whistles, like a 90's Jeep Cherokee.  Fill her to brimming with tourists.  Add one crazy Omani driver, take advantage of ridiculously cheap oil prices, and let loose on sand dunes.  The result is 45 minutes of the best roller coaster you have ever been on, interspersed with moments of tranquil sightseeing and utter terror.  It's amazing.  At the end we were dropped off at the top of one of the bigger dunes (did you know that sand dunes are 40% air?), where we took advantage of the beautiful lighting to take pictures (see the facebook album!) and watched the sunset.  That night we ate a huge Omani style meal (no utensils), listened to Bedouin musicians, and smoked sheesha while gazing at the moon.

The next day we fooled around the camp for a bit (and paid small children extortionist prices for camel rides) and headed off to the camp near Sur.  The ride was supposed to be over 5 hours but we made it there in less than 3, thanks to our driver Abdullah.  Is he a time lord?  Can he do the time warp?  The theories ran thick and silly.  Once there at the second camp we took advantage of the free time to go to the beach, where we swam and played soccer.  I scored the first goal of the day!

That night we ate in a similar style, and again, sat under the stars and the moon smoking sheesha.  This time, however, we were accompanied by Ali, the manager of the campground, who provided the sheesha and looked a bit like an Arab James Franco.  He was a really cool guy -the kind of guy who makes me love traveling, really.  One of those people who loves traveling and travelers, and who's always happy to share a story or show someone around.  When he wasn't poking fun at us he sang Arabic love songs while gazing into the flames of the campfire.  That night, with the moon, the conversations, the songs, the tea, the sheesha... everything, really... was one of the best evenings I've had in recent memory.  Getting dive bombed by the occasional bat was also kinda fun.

After a few-hour-long nap, we all piled into the bus at 4:00am to go to the turtle reserve.  We spent a few hours there watching a couple turtles digging nests in the sand, although to be honest, coming from Hawaii I've had more exciting turtle experiences.  The turtles were huge, though, and our guide was very knowledgeable and pronounced "turtles" as "tee-urtles."  This led to much speculation on the people's socialist party of tee-urtles, or whether communist tee-urtles in the gulf refer to each other as "comrade." 

Later that morning we left to go see Sur, and spend an hour in a dhao (wooden sailing boat) factory.  Those things are pretty freaking cool.  If I have the money to be ridiculously self-indulgent one day, I'm going to buy one and listen to the Pirates of the Caribbean theme non-stop.  After that we drove to the Wadi, and spent a few hours hiking into the back to reach a prime swimming location.

Again, I'm going to have to direct you to the photos on facebook.  It would be really difficult to portray the vast sense of space and beauty within the wadi, or how clean and clear the water was, or jaw-droppingly gorgeous the cliffs were against the sky, or how relaxing and refreshing it was to finally jump in.  Check out the pictures.  They speak for themselves.

Finally, our trip (which was only  a weekend but felt like so much more) came to an end, and we made the final stretch back into Muscat.  We were taken back to the learning center, where our usual bus drivers picked us up and took us back home.  But not before we all stopped at a Baskin Robbins for ice cream.  Because our perfect weekend needed a cherry on top.

Beginnings That Get Better

Starting an exchange program or departing on a huge trip has always made me a nervous wreck.  Going to France, leaving for college, going to India –every time, my pre-departure jitters leave me feeling sick to my stomach for days.  Thankfully, without exception, every trip has been completely worth the panic.

            Oman hasn’t been an exception to the rule, either.  I hadn’t been this nervous since flying to France all by my lonesome at the sweet young age of sixteen, but since landing in Oman things have been going wonderfully.  After spending my first night in a hotel, I spent my first day at SIT’s World Learning Center, meeting all the other students and getting an orientation crash-course.  I jumped into classes too –attending a two-hour long lecture on religion my first afternoon!

            After that I moved in with my host family, and hung out with them for the weekend. (The weekend in most Islamic countries is Thursday-Friday.) My host family consists of Ali, my host dad, who speaks Arabic and some English, his wife, Shamza, who speaks Swahili and Arabic, and Ali’s daughters from a previous marriage, Iman and Amani, who speak Arabic, Balushi, and some English.  Ho boy.  If I come back using completely obscure phrases that no one outside of Oman could possible understand, now you know why.

              While the weekend did have a couple of “augh what am I doing” moments of travelers’ angst, in general it went really well.  My host sisters, with whom I spend the most time, are giggly high-school age girls who probably think I’m really weird for wanting to learn Arabic, but who gamely take me with them when they hang out with their friends.  This mostly consists of going to the next house over, where the family seems to consist of whichever cousins and neighbors and babies are in the area.  I love it.

            I love the SIT group, too.  There are thirteen of us in the undergrad program, and even though I came several days after the other two Egyptian displacements and significantly later than the rest of the group, we’re all getting to know each other really well.  Between classes (which I started full-time to days ago) and on the bus, especially, things dissolve into hysterics as we crack up over whatever culture shock moment just came up.  Today it was the bus driver asking the student from Japan the most politically incorrect, culturally insensitive questions about China and Japan possible. (China and Japan, because they’re basically the same place, and everyone there looks the same anyways.  The driver’s words, not mine.)  Poor Taiki.  His Arabic sounded really good, though.

            This weekend the group is going to Sharqiyyah, to stay at a desert camp and ride camels.  We might go sand surfing and swimming in a wadi, too.  Panic = overcome.  Trip = totally worth it.

Fly Emirates

When you're traveling alone, to a new country, off on a new adventure, fly Emirates.


The longest flight of my life was just the most comfortable and enjoyable flight of my life.  Sixteen hours in a tin can and I would have extended it if I could. 


Let me start off by giving you a taste of my mood getting on this plane.  I had just flown overnight Kona to LA, had spent a strange hour in the international terminal lounge talking to an Israeli woman who started the conversation by talking about how much she loves olive oil (enough to carry some with her at all times, so she can put it on fast-food salad and sandwich bread.  She also told me that Virgos don't need love.  I'm not going to think much on that one.) and was swinging between panic and exhaustion every few minutes. 


First thing on the plane, I'm handed a menu (an actual menu!) and a hot towel, and I'm told that the first complimentary meal will be served in an hour.


My first in-flight meal started with a chatpatti alu appetizer (diced potatoes in a "tangy sauce"), followed by the lamb curry, which consisted of "tender pieces of lamb cooked in a flavorful curry sauce, with steamed basmati rice, and an okra tomato stew."  Accompanying this was a mixed berry ragout (with light mascarpone cream), cheese and biscuits, tea, juice, and a lovely little chocolate.


It was airline heaven.  Additionally, the flight was fairly empty, so I had a whole row of seats to stretch out and enjoy my multiple pillows, breathable cotton blanket, and complimentary sleep mask and organic fiber socks.  The flight attendants were wonderful as well, ranging from the extraordinary polite to the somewhat maternal.  When then one with the bright red lipstick called me "sweetheart" I felt so safe and cared for that I was able to sleep for hours. 


Alas, all good things must come to an end, and after my breakfast of scrambled eggs (served with crispy potato wedges, grilled tomato, a steaming hot croissant, a roll with jam, fresh fruit, orange juice, and coffee) my little taste of heaven was over, and we landed in Dubai. 


Someday I will fly Emirates again.  In the meantime, I'll have to console myself with an extended stay in Oman.  Oh well.