Thank goodness for a 4-day-weekend! (By royal decree, the 27th and 28th were the official holidays for National Day.) I spent the first two days putzing around, cleaning my apartment, and basically relishing the fact that I had no Arabic homework whatsoever. So despite my lack of formal plans for that holiday weekend, I enjoyed it. I even bought something at the shopping festival at the Exhibition Centre (wooo consumerism!).
On Thursday, I broke my promise of rest, relaxation and sleeping in, and headed down to the interior for the day. My destination was Adam, around 60 km south of Nizwa (and very close to the camel races where I was last weekend) and the last green oasis on the long, almost-1000km road to Salalah. Adam is also the home of the Al-Busaidi tribe, and ultimately the home of the founders of the current Al-Busaidi dynasty, established in the mid-1700s. The Al-Busaidi Dynasty sent the first Arab ambassador to the US in 1840, and was the first to sign a trade treaty with the US in 1833. They were also the ones who moved the capital of Oman to Muscat.
Adam is also the home of a very good friend of the SQCC, Mubarak. On long holiday breaks such as this one, many Omanis travel back to their hometowns to be with their families, and so I made plans to spend time with Mubarak's family. I was greeted by Mubarak, three of his five (six?) children and a handful of cousins. We were welcomed into his brother's home by his (Mubarak's brother) very sweet (and very pregnant) wife, and the traditional Omani welcome of dates and Omani coffee (with cardamom!). I was introduced to all the children ... Mubarak's kids, his sister's kids, his brothers' kids ... all of whom were very pretty and handsome and curious and eager to practice their English as much as I wanted to practice my Arabic.
We all went for a walk, and en route to the old crumbling town of Adam (now being restored by the Ministry of Culture and Heritage, much like the old town of Manah), we stopped by to visit Mubarak's father before noon-time prayers. We were walking on a dirt path in a lush oasis of green date palm trees, all bunched together in various plots, all fed fresh spring water by the ancient (supposedly Persian) irrigation system called aflaj (singular: falaj). Date palms were (and to some extent, still are) a source of livelihood to Omanis, and not one part of the tree was spared to make some use to human and animal life ... All of the date farms surrounding us were his father's, Mubarak explained, and before the discovery of oil, the possession and harvesting of so many date palms was considered a mark of wealth and prosperity. The date palm was life.
I was welcomed into a spacious hut (made of date palms, of course) and as I stepped into the lush carpet with my bare feet, I was greeted by Mubarak's father with such enthusiasm and kindness that one has come to expect with meeting anybody new here in Oman. As-salaamu 3alaykum ... wa alaykum salaam ... kayf 7alik? ... bikhayr, al-hamdulillah ... zayn, zayn, kayf 7alish? ... zayn, al-hamdulillah ... al-hamdulillah, al-hamdulillah ... I sat next to the 3ajuuz (عجوز, literally "old man") and marveled at what I saw in front of me: photographs, mostly old, of Sultan Qaboos ... as a child, as a young boy, in the early days of his rule ... framed photographs flanked by various rifes, khanjars, knives and rows of bullets, reminiscent of old tribal rivalries and the struggle to keep control of one's territories. Old pots and date palm bags were scattered in piles amidst old trunks, blankets, carpets ... the room was spacious (with electric fans buzzing overhead ... ah, Oman ... the perfect mix of modern and traditional ...), with cushions and soft carpets atop the gravel ground. This man must be quite important and well-revered in this community, to have such a spacious room to receive his guests ... He was kind and sweet and smiling, his tanned face creased with wrinkles, his dark eyes still twinkling, eyes that had seen the old Oman and praised the wonders and good things that Sultan Qaboos has down for his country.
[Linguistic digression: I noticed in Omani dialect, much like Iraqi dialect, the use of "-sh" when addressing the second person feminine. For example, in Iraq, you would say "Shloonik?" to a man and "Shloonish?" to a woman, asking them how they are. In Oman, you can say "Kayf 7alish?" or "Shoo ismish?" to females, asking them how they are or what their name is, respectively. There is also various colloquial phrases similar to Moroccan dialect, like the use of the word "zayn" in Omani dialect to indicate that something is good, much like in Morocco, one would say "mezyan," using the same "z-y-n" root. Interesting.]
We talked ... about what I am doing in Oman, where I am living in Muscat, how I know Mubarak, what I did in the US before I came here ... throughout the conversation, various children (all the man's grandchildren) filtered in and out of the room, paying their respects to the elders before quickly running out into the sun to chase their brother/sister/cousin through the narrow streets of old Adam. We were joined by Mubarak's wife, Shamsa (literally a feminised version of the word meaning "sun" ... pretty!) and the subject of marriage came up, naturally. I suppose it is natural for the Omanis I encounter outside of Muscat to be curious about my marital status ... after all, I am usually alone or with friends who are couples when I meet them. Mubarak jokingly quipped that now I am here in Oman, and will be for such a long time, it was now time for me to find an "عريس عماني" (Omani groom) ... Oh boy. I explained that I am still "شابة" (a young woman), and that it is customary in America for women to marry older. Shamsa had said it was normal for many Omani women to marry at the age of 18, though the age justifiably varies from region to region, from city to town. Later, as the subject of my supposed future Omani husband came about again after meeting various older family members, I could not help but think ... if my future children are going to be as beautiful as these kids are, I wouldn't mind ...(of course, he would have to pass rigorous inspection by my extreme picky-ness for men in general ... ;o))
After stuffing myself again with dates (which were quite fresh, and very local, probably picked from that date palm flanking the entrance), and fresh coffee, we were off, the old man to his prayers, and the rest of us to explore the old crumbling town of Adam. Walking throughout the town was much like walking through old Manah, except this time, Mubarak told stories about the town ... where various stores were (like Carrefour!), where families lived, a small library ... He showed us his old childhood home, built by his father himself, showcasing a room, though crumbling, still contained the brightly colored paintings on the walls and an inscription praising the Sultan.
We walked through dusty streets, Mubarak saying that going back to childhood home brings back such good memories ... he pointed out the window of his mother's old room, saying that he would watch the goings-on of the town from that window. One can only imagine such a flashback ... this old brown town of Adam in its former glory, no cars zooming through its narrow streets, its four towers surrounding the town flanked with guards on the lookout for invaders and strangers ... one can just imagine the bustle of white dishdashas with a glint of the noble khanjar as the men filed their way into the mosque ... the blur of brightly colored sarwals and thawbs and lehafs of the ladies doing their weekly shopping, haggling for a good price and keeping their children in line ... perhaps a donkey or horse parading through, carrying bundles of dates to be delivered outside of town ...
When we arrived back at his brother's house, I had lunch with Mubarak and the ladies of his family -- his mother, his sister and his wife. We ate in traditional style, sharing from a large bowl of rice, using our hands to cleanly separate the chicken from its bone, scoop up the rice and meat gracefully in your hand, pack it in so it can easily slip from hand into mouth. Easier said than done. Lunch is the "big" meal (which isn't usually the case for me ... I usually go all out for breakfast or dinner), so I wasn't accustomed to eating so much food in one sitting in the middle of the day. They all ate speedily, each one prompting me to take more salad (good for your blood), or more meat (beef this time, not camel) or to drink more juice. At last, when the meal was over, the side with most rice still leftover was mine ... but I honestly could not stuff myself anymore without retching it back to where it came from. All delicious food, and I felt bad about not eating as much as they wanted ... I must work on that, eating more. I suppose my mother will see to that when I go home for Christmas! ;o)
I napped (obligatory after such a meal), and said my apologies to another friend, Bader ... I was supposed to visit him in his hometown of Ibra (in the Sharqiya), but alas, my schedule could not allow it. I told him that I wasn't prepared to stay the night, and he said that he wouldn't advise me driving back to Muscat by myself, late at night. I felt horrible, not being able to visit, and I apologised profusely ... inshallah, next time. I spent the rest of the evening, touring more of the date palm plantations and spending time with the kids, which reminded me of spending time with my cousins in the Philippines or even the kids with the Filipino group back at home. At one point, Mubarak's brother asked if I was ok with the kids running around, screaming and beating each other up, and I could only laugh and say that I was used to it with my own large family.
Mubarak's family was headed back to Muscat that evening, so it was safe for me to follow them all the way back ... After a family-packed day, I was relieved to be back on my own in the privacy of my own car! But it was a glorious day, and I had a lot of fun getting to know his family; I felt like it was being with mine, except the whole language difference ...
Parts of the road back to Muscat are not lit, which I was grateful for. As I concentrated on the road and the various speedy drivers trying to pass me on this one-lane highway, I could not help but notice the lack of light pollution ... the blackness of the night sky and oh, the stars. Millions and billions of stars in the sky ... I wanted to stop on the side of the road, lay on the hood of my car and just gaze at them for hours until sleep, cold, the dawn (or all three) would prompt me to return back to reality ...
But instead, I sped the 220 km back to Muscat, back to the life of the city, my head heavy from fatigue, my clothes impregnated with the musky scent of frankincense, my stomach full with dates and Omani coffee to last a lifetime ...
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