Salalah Saga II: (warning) An uninspired account

Call me a big city girl who can't do without glittering lights and a little late night madness, but Salalah was dull for me. It's gorgeous, make no mistake, and if I wasn't going on work, I probably would have enjoyed it some more. Although, here I must say work didn't take too much of my time there but the fact that I had to keep my senses peeled to pick up stories there kind of ruined it for me.

I was going back there after 15 years, if not more, and all I could think of was how I didn't recognise a single thing there. Not one single thing. Not a street, not a shop, not the place we stayed in -- absolutely nothing. So very quickly, I understood that my memory was pathetic or it was playing tricks on me and that I never actually went to Salalah on a DEAS camp during my school days. It was that different.

The first thing I observed as soon as I got out of the airport was that aestheticians had been busy in the city. Ornate lamp posts with pretty curlicues, wide sashes of green with flowers by the sidewalks and in roundabouts, little touches here and there to render the landscape pleasant to the eye -- very touristy.

Maybe it was because it was overcast – I like the sun – but the city just looked dull, you know what I mean? Sometimes, there’s a buzz about a city as soon as you set foot in it. And I don’t mean a Bombay kind of busy buzz. It could very well be a lazy island destination’s slow wave that seduces you as soon as you look on. Salalah has neither. And that was discouraging for me. Enjoying a place is as much about my first reaction to it as it is about the things I actually get to do there.

Its people. In Muscat there are smiles and they are warm, friendly; even as people keep their distance, believe in a little reserve. In Salalah, I found they only believed in the latter. I didn’t see a stranger smile; even the cab guy was surly, which is a rare, rare thing in my life. All my cab guys are super chatty, obliging and almost always offer me their phone numbers in case I am stranded somewhere. This guy didn’t even acknowledge my thank you when he ripped me off five bucks for what I thought was less than a kilometer.

Moving on, till I found a guide/cab guy I was pretty clueless about the city so I went walking out the first day just to figure out what was happening. Absolutely nothing. I landed the day the Salalah Tourism Festival  (you might need Google Translate on this) opened. The STF, in case you’re wondering, happens at Khareef time when Salalah is like an intense wash of kathakali green. There’s that brilliant verdancy of life everywhere – one has to see it to know what being hit by one single colour means.

There’s not a camera in the world, not a Photoshop expert in the world who can capture the mood that prevails when an unbeatable army of militantly green saplings is bursting forth, thirsting and hungering for life, taking over everything that isn’t concrete or tar. And the mountain tops – how does one best describe them? It's like the mountains are breathing in the cool air, creating a mist of vapour around them, hiding treasures from the small thing that is a human being, unless of course the proverbial Mohammed climbs the said mountain to discover, to his surprise or relief, that there are no secrets. Only a steady heavenly spray of rain. No voluptuous drops that burst into uncountable tiny droplets on your head, no showers, just a hint of a spray making everything delectably wet.

But that’s nice for about 12 hours if you are alone and aren’t old. If it’s interesting longer than that, then my guess is you really like overcast skies or are on a honeymoon. Otherwise, it’s just depressing to not see the sun. Also, an overcast sky like the one I got makes for really dull pictures. You absolutely need a little sunshine to catch the colours of the raging sea. Or the myriad shadows in the mountains.

Speaking of raging sea, I’ve always loved the sea and been in overwhelming awe of its enormous power. But to see it roiling and raging like that – like a hungry, blind animal insolently and selfishly taking away with it everything the world happened to give it by mistake – that was a humbling experience. A bored, restless sea wearing a stole of foamy white crashed against the black rocks like a paper Sisyphus, only to go back again in a mind-numbing ritual that it felt compelled to maintain.

Capturing the foam on camera was not easy and as it was not easy, I didn’t quite manage it nicely. But what I did was take back the sight and music in my heart to relive it when I developed my occasional attack of bi-polar and felt invincible. When I felt like the most powerful woman for miles around, for absolutely no reason. I hear the sound gather in my heart and I feel humble, like the small human being I am.

As always, the sea brings out the pop-philosopher in me. Apologies.

So, okay. First impressions: Check. Landscape: Check. Warmth: Check. What is left is a mention of tourist destinations. Which I won’t talk about because you’ll find it all here. My impression, on the whole, even of the hot spots, was of certain fecundity, a sort of inertia. There was nothing more than miles and miles of gorgeousness. That’s enough for some people. I am not one of them.

I found that I enjoyed myself at the historical sites of Ubar and the general area of the historical Queen of Sheba. I also loved looking at the mountains that had frankincense trees. I felt like a kid when I first spotted one and then as we moved along the road, the side of the hill was full of it. It was so exciting to see so many of them, and I was told that in that area, it wasn’t even harvested and that it just grew wild. I love the beauty of that.

Strangely enough, the thing I enjoyed the most about my sight-seeing was the drive to Wadi Dirbat, on the way to the Yemen border. It’s a twisty-twirly route that cuts through two mountains. The most spectacular place on that drive was the valley itself, the wadi that floods if the rain is big. On either sides, the mountains rise in an awe-inspiring wave of brown and ocher. And from the middle the view all around is beyond description. I was so spellbound that I didn’t take pictures. Explain that.

And finally, I was mildly surprised at one thing and rather shocked at another. The thing that surprised me was how much people – men as well as women – stared at you. Not just the staring, but the quality of it. There’s no hesitation, no sense of impropriety. They go ahead and stare, and you better get used to it. It could be that so many women are in their hijab and purdah. That all local women cover their face was news to me. And while I was informed of it before I left Muscat for Salalah, it came as a shock to see flash of an ankle, a hint of the wrist but to never ever look into a face of these women. The men too, I suppose, because they don’t see too many women without the protective abaya and purdah, stare at you. Not in a hostile or offensive way, but in way they would look at a grasshopper shedding its summer skin – with mild interest at best.

The thing that shocked me, however, was the number of obese children I saw in Salalah, and sadly most of them girls. I looked at it logically – albeit by my logic – and it seemed there were more obese kids in Salalah than there were here in Muscat. See, it’s like this. I see more people here in Muscat because, simply, there are more people here. By that coin, I should see more kids here who are obese. But I don’t. In the few hundreds that I saw on the festival grounds in Salalah, almost every fifth child was obese. Not just chubby or fat, but seriously obese. It worried me, the fact that it was more girls than boys.

That was Salalah for me.  

Salalah Saga 1

So OmanAir thinks people in economy class eat a lot less than those in business class.  For reasons best known to me (I’ve been waiting to use that phrase and sound all important for a while now) I haven’t flown economy in a while.  On Saturday, I was on a flight to Salalah in economy. I was told I was the last person to check in and that dovetailed perfectly with my bafflement at the seat number on my boarding card - -32 a. I have never sat that back on any flight. I was surprised in that snooty way I have that there are seats that far back.

I am not a big fan of stewardesses in general. I’ve forgotten how snooty and rude economy stewardesses can be. Using actions to describe things when talking to people perfectly capable of understanding speech, wearing an expression of utter disdain, and handing out applogies without meaning a word of it. The stewardesses I encountered were all this and more.  I decided to ignore that because as a rule, the service standards in this country are below par. Which is tremendously surprising for me because I find Omanis so extremely warm,welcoming and splendidly hospitable. Service should come so easily to them. But over and over again I’ve faced experiences where customer satisfaction and experience have taken a backseat to lacadaisical attitudes and plain rudeness.

This flight for me was a landmark one of sorts. For all practical purposes it was just a flight to Salalah where I’ve come for work.  But this was also the first time I am travelling away from the kids overnight. It was also the first flight where I was the only woman who was travelling alone. Not only was I travelling alone but also in a flight full of Omanis and other Arabs. I know it sounds like it makes no difference and it doesn’t mostly.  Except for a few things.

Sitting next to me were a young Qatari couple. The girl was stunning – gorgeous bright eyes that were only made more lovely by their arresting hazel colour –natural, I assure you. And the husband, well, he couldn’t keep his hands off her now, could he? Shucking her under her chin, rubbing the back of her hand with his, slipping his fingers under the hem of the sleeve of her abaya to get a feel of her skin, all the while telling her amusing stories. And this bright girl, so unnaffected in her response, was lively like raindrops falling on a pond. They talked the entire 90-odd minutes of the flight and seemed so good together. And when I landed in Salalah I was glad that they chose this place to come to for a little romance because it was such great baby-making weather, never mind if you actually wanted to make one or not.

The rest of the flight, as far as I could hear, was full of bawling monstrous kids. I suppose when I travel next, mine will be the same. God help my co-passengers whenever I go.

So this flight even smelt different. All that frankincense that some women use, very Oriental perfume and a lovely comingling of a myriad things that I can’t place. It was nice. Now the thing I noticed about Arab women is that they keep their shades till the plane takes off. And put them right on as soon as they land. As opposed to wearing them just before stepping out like I do. Or most women I know do. The other thing they do is constantly fiddle with their shelas. It’s slipping off all the time so they’ve got to keep putting it back just so. It’s very interesting for me to watch because there’s such grace in the gesture, even though it’s quick and the movements are quite efficient. A flash of gold, a shadow of henna, a glimpse of bling, a snatch of their clothing. Overall, I enjoyed watching them go flick and swish for about half an hour. After which, I just wished they’d settle down.

They were a quiet bunch, these Arabs. Mostly very polite and the only time I heard them raise their voice was to keep their kids quiet. Otherwise they ate, snoozed and looked out of the window in silence. Until we landed, that is. The minute the announcements for seatbelts-on came on, there was a little buzz that went about and since our pilot was pretty clueless about landing smoothly we landed with a mighty thud. And almost all of them – men and women – went something like this… ooaaaaaaah! Followed by general laughter – of relief, I suppose. I loved this. It was like watching a football match or a magician’s show or something. No one got up before the plane stopped taxiing, no one started bustling about trying to get their cabin luggage, no one switched on their phones till the doors were open. Very well behaved I thought, especially in comparison to my countrymen who want to be the first one out the door even if it means looking mean and stamping people on the way. I actually saw more than one person letting people before him pass out of politeness.

I began this post yesterday with a very interesting point (to me, at least) that I wanted to make. But I put it off for later today and now I am just rambling. So I am going to wrap this up now and thank the Qatari girl for the extra bread.

Oh, I didn’t tell you about that, did I? So I didn’t want to eat the rice on my plate, rice that I didn’t ask for, by the way. Everyone else got asked if they wanted rice or pasta and this stewardess straight away gave me a meal of a) vegetarian and b) rice. Without asking me. I prefer non-vegetarian food, if I am eating on an airline at all, and I don’t like rice. I politely asked her what it was and she told me. I handed it back and told her I wanted non-vegetarian. Even then, I wasn’t asked if I’d like pasta. Not that I wanted it but I like to be asked. She handed me chicken and rice.

I don’t like rice and decided to eat the khubbs they had served. After I finished that really tiny piece I decided to ask for some more because I was starving from not having eaten anything since 9 a.m. I asked and the stewardess gave me a fake apology and said they had run out. Without checking. Before I knew it, the Qatari guy said something to his wife and she quickly popped the two pieces from their meals on to my plate! I was entirely stunned into not knowing how to respond to that. Would it be impolite to refuse? To accept? At the end I went with my gut, flashed them a smile that came from my heart and said thank you. There’s no other way to deal with random acts of kindness from pretty girls with bright hazel eyes.