Feb 2007

Languages that I frequently encounter in Oman:
English (duh)
Arabic (really duh)
Swahili (from almost all of the homestay family and relatives)
German (from Sultan, his wife, Galla, and the random Germans that are everywhere)
Spanish (from Sabrina and Kristie, from Mexico and Columbia respectively)
Dutch (from Andrew and Jenna both of whom studied there)
Hindi, Urdu, Punjab (walk into any store in Ruwi, seriously)
Jabbali (while in Salalah)
Croatian (Galla’s preferred language of choice for swearing)
A perfect example of the polyglot nature of this trip: My Arabic teacher, Sultan, studied in Germany for quite a bit (where he met his wife, who’s from Yemen), so he knows German, which is almost better than his English. When he doesn’t know a word in English, he almost always knows it in German. So, he tells it to Andrew. Since Dutch and German are fairly close, Andrew tries to see if the German word is close enough to the Dutch word, and then he translates the Dutch word to English. In our attempt to find the right word, we literally go from Arabic to German to Dutch to English. This doesn’t even begin to explain the way in which our homestay families are able to carry on three different conversations at once, one in English, one in Arabic, and one in Swahili. Considering that I’m happy when I can get the taxi driver to go where I want, this is all somewhat mind-boggling to me.

As I mentioned before, we were in Salalah this past weekend. The city is the capital of the southern region, Dhofar, and the scene of some intense fighting back in the 1970's, as Communist rebels from Yemen fought against (at various times) the Sultan's forces, Iranians, and British SAS. It is also the frankincense capital of the world, as the frankincense trees are only able to grow in the unique environment that is Dhofar.
As soon as we stepped off the plane in Salalah, we could tell it was the frankincense capital of the world. Some cities have a very distinct smell, and Salalah is one of them. The entire city smells of luban, the Arabic word for frankincense. Everyone burns it, the hotels, the suqs, even the poor neighborhoods of South Asians. What might normally sell for $60 to $100 in the US sells for $5 in Salalah, there's just so much of it. Consequently, we bought the stuff by the kilo. Frankincense comes in small whitish green rocks, and consequently, we made numerous jokes comparing buying frankincense to buying crack rocks.
Salalah also seems like its on another continent. It has a heavy historical connection to Yemen and Somalia, and it shows throughout the city. Salalah is also the only place in the Middle East where the Khareef (monsoon) touches, and consequently it looks like a lush tropical rainforest for 4 months out of the year. Unfortunately, we were not there during the khareef, but the topography is nonetheless incredible. Salalah is built on a coastal plain, and after going inland 10 km, the mountains rise up at a nearly 90 degree angle. These were the mountains that the rebels were based out of during the insurgency, and I can only imagine, having looked at the terrain, how hard it must have been for British commandos to deal with. The hills and valleys in parts of Salalah make Afghanistan look like a minor mountain range.
While in Salalah we did quite a bit of touring. While in Mirbat, we stopped at the fishing port, and while we were there, the local fishermen hauled in a baby whale shark, still alive. Mirbat was the scene of one of the fiercest battles during the civil war, and the Sultanate bought up the part of town that was destroyed and preserved it as it stands, a reminder to what happens when you mess with the Sultan. The day after that, we visited Mughsail. The waves have eroded the limestone cliffs on the shore, and in parts, worn through to the surface. When a strong wave hits the cliffs, water shouts out like a geyser. Mughsail is also the location of an incredible beach. While a bit rocky in places, the water is an incredible shade of turquoise, and we had a great time swimming and getting tan. The beach is all the more incredible by the fact that it is utterly abandoned, even on a Friday when we were there. There were no tourists, or even locals, on the beach, we had it all to ourselves.
After touring the outskirts of Salalah by day, we would return to the city and hit the suqs by night. While a lot fo the stuff was made in India, we were still able to pick up lots of frankincense, and they had an incredible Yemenese restaurant. It sold lamb kebabs by the stick, great chipati bread, and excellent juice. We followed it up with shishah on the beach. All in all it was a very successful trip.
On our way back to Muscat, our plane ride was delayed by two hours. This might have been normal in the US, but the Salalah-Muscat flight was the only flight of the day. Flights in Salalah are not given by flight number or time they get in, they're given by which day they arrive, as in the Wednesday Muscat flight. Apparently our flight was delayed from Muscat, and thus the wait. I think Hopkins airport in Cleveland deals with more flights in one hour than Salalah deals with in a month. Still, Salalah was a great place to relax. I never thought I'd think of Muscat as a busy city, but after visiting the sleepy city of Salalah (Oman's second largest city), it's good to be back in the thick of things in Muscat.

I came to Oman because I wanted to really get to know the Middle East and Oman. Well, when I found myself being questioned by the police in a police station, I knew that I was REALLY getting to know Oman.
So here's the setup: On a Wednesday evening (the weekend starts on Thursday, so Wednesday = Friday in the MidEast), I stayed up until 2 am with homestay brothers and sisters, just kinda hanging out. When we do go to bed, we're pretty tired, and we sleep deeply. Furthermore, air conditioners in Oman sound like jet fighters scrambling to intercept Russian nuclear bombers during the Cold War. The combination of these two factors means that we couldn't hear anything in the rest of the house unless it happens in our room.
Flash forward: My homestay sister Tuti is in my room telling me to get up. This is not cool on many levels. For one thing, it's 8 am, and I'm still very tired. But, more importantly, while my family is very laid back, it's unusual for her to be in the guys room, espcially hile we're still in bed. So I roll over, and I see cops. In our room. Many of them. My first thought is something the effect of "it is ay to early for this." Turns out, sometime between 2 am and 5 am, when my homestay mother Zainab got home from a wedding (it's one of the few legit social opportunities for women, so they stay out late), her room was ransacked and robbed. The room was torn apart, stuff tossed everywhere, and a safe was taken. And we didn't hear it in the room next door because of the runaway AC.
So now the police are asking questions. They bring a dog to try and detect a scent. First, they ask us all to line up outside, so the dog can sniff us. Seems that since the locks weren't broken, they sort of suspect someone in the house. This is my first indication that this day is not going to go well. While my family is totally cool about Western influences, most Omanis (and certainly anyone that's in the police) can not possible fathom the idea of letting a foreign man into the home. This becomes a very big deal in a bit. So, the dog starts sniffing, and guess who he stops by. That's right, me. They shift everybody in the line, and bring the dog by again. As 'evidence,' they're taking Polaroids as the dog goes. When the dog stops at me a second time, the guy taking the pictures has this big grin on his face, like he thinks his just closed the case. In the photo, you can see me just absolutely scowling at the camera. I'm seriously not pleased at this point, having been awokened, not allowed to shower or get changed, and am now a suspect in a robbery. So I put a lot of effort into showing my displeasure in the photo, and it shows.
At this point, we all go back into the house, and the cops inform me, Zainab, and Tuti, that we are going to have go down to the police station in Mutrah to 'give statements.' Zainab and Tuti try to convince me that this has nothing to do with me, but even if this isn't about the robbery, there are going to be issues. At this point, all I can think of is that if I ever try to get a job with the State Department, it's going to take a heck of a long time if I have to get fingerprinted at some POS Omani police station. So, when I go to change, I change into really nice clothes, grab my Oakley sunglasses, the sunglasses cleaning bag, two packs of gum, my phone, and some other items that are about to become very useful.
Here's the thing about cops in developing countries: Either they don't want a confrontation ith an American because it's bad for business, or they have a way of dealing with foreigners that is totally different from the normal procedure. If you're smart, an American can usually take advantage of this. I know I went to Oman to promote cross-cultural understanding, learn more about the culture, yada yada yada. This is the type of situation that stereotypes about Americans are made for. I snap into American tourist mode. Cops in foreign countries can only really affect you if you get nervous. So, I pour my entire being into being the American tourist that is seriously pissed off about being bothered by the local police.
We go down to the station, and they take me and Tuti into a seperate room to ask us questions. She's acting as my interpreter. The sergeant (or whatever his local equivalent is) starts asking her questions first, then turns to me. He asks, in English, to know why I'm in Oman. I answer in English, saying that I'm here to study Arabic. He asks me a basic question in Arabic. I answer in Arabic. Badly. With a horrible accent. I could have answered a lot better, but know he asks the questions in Arabic to Tuti because he thinks I don't speak well, and I can pick up the gist of the questions in Arabic, while still answering in English. Let the mind games begin. At one point, he asks for my passport. I have anticipated this, because it's going to be a problem. I answer with the truth, that it's locked in a safe at my school. In Al-Hail. 45 minutes away. Fine, he asks for another form of ID. Uh-oh. I give him my ISIC card, hich is pretty much disposable. He says that he needs to more forms. Crap. I give him my driver's license and OU ID. He starts to record the info. At one point he asks if there is a driver license number. With as much loathing as possible in my voice, I reply, "Underneath where it says drivers license number." He then proceeds to ask if there is a sheikh of my tribe in Cleveland that he should contact. I laugh.
This is where things get really fun. Now he tells me that he needs to hold my ID's for a few days. Shit. If cops in a country that is governed by the rule by law rather than the rule of law, it's generally not a good thing. So, I fall back on a trick I heard about in China, where they try to pull this stunt for bribes. I calmly ask for a pen and paper. Slightly confused, they oblige. I then begin to very obviously write down their names and ranks (they conveniently had name tags with the proper spellings). Then I ask for a recepit verifying that they have my ID's. They leave the room and come back in a few minutes and say that they have decided they only needed to make a copy, and ask for the sheet of paper back. I say no.
At this point, I'm seriously pissed off. They aren't looking at me for the robbery any more. They're interested in me because it is so totally foreign to them that Zainab would let a forieng man into her home. It is further complicated by the fact that A) she's divorced and there's no husband in the home, and B) I was technically home along with Tuti (who is 18), with only the other kids and the maid present. This is about culturally equivalent to a conservative Omani as inviting an Eastern European prosititute in a home in America and letting her conduct business in the house. Now you know why they're interested. Plus, they think all Americans are spies, and the fact that I'm nowhere near the tourist spots, and living with a family, doesn't help things. If you think I'm being paranoid, at one point I kept hearing them ask Tuti a quesiton with the word 'mutazawj" in it, which means husband. My suspicions are confirmed when she tells me later that they thought we were getting married. Seriously. So now I'm pissed, and I do my best to convey it. I chew gum frantically, changing the peice every 5 minutes. I play with my sunglasses. I put them on, I take them off, I clean them with the lens cleaning bag. I text people on my phone and play games on it while they are asking me questions. Eventually they get the point, and let me go sit outside. They finish questioning Tuti and Zainab, and we finally get to go home.
The crazy part of all this is that the actually caught the guy the same day, and recovered everything. Apparently, this is highly unusual, since my family had already started to write everything off. So it was pretty much a waste of time, aside from the rather interesting cultural experience that resulted from all of it.

This Wednesday we leave for Salalah, Oman's second city. It is the capital of the Dhofar region, and the historical center of the Omani frankincese (sp?) trade. We'll be there for three days, and SIT has been kind enough not to schedule us from sun up to sun down, so I might get a chance to just walk around for a bit. Anyways, Salalah is also where they make Omani traditional dhows, and they're pretty well known for the silver khanjar daggers also, so I'll probably be doing a bit of shopping. Look for pictures the next time I get a chance to do Internet.

Alright, so this is gonna ramble a bit. It's hard to describe, but in the two and a half weeks that I've been in country, I've had a rather odd feeling the entire time. This trip doesn't feel anything like the trip to China. Not just in the obvious terms, like the differences in culture and language. It doesn't really even feel like I'm studying abroad. Maybe it's because a good chunk of the city looks like if South Beach Miami (in terms of architecture) met Detroit (in terms of people). Maybe it's because whenever I can';t speak Arabic, somebody usually corrects me in perfect British-accented English (not that that is particularly good for my Arabic). Or maybe it's because I got all my culture shock out in Oman, and now I'm totally fine sinking into another culture. I think that to a degree it's also because I was expecting such a radically different culture, and instead it really hasn't been that different. There are times when it's really hard to realize I'm in a foreign country, and that peope just aren't wearing dishdashas for fun. Espcially in my homestay family, when the 16 year old kid is asking me to play Linkin Park on my laptop (he already knows all the words). Who knows. All I know is that each day feels like a week, and that time has slowed down to a standstill. Maybe it's just the usual aspect of studying abroad, or maybe it's that I'm getting used to the Arab concept of time, which is rather malleable. All in all, this turning into quite a trip.