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.