‘Today we will sail to a very nice place,’ smiled our captain, sitting down cross-legged in front of us. Only now did I notice his curiously large ears, which, with the light behind them, were almost translucent.
‘What about the smugglers?’ asked Frédéric, lifting himself into a more upright position, a glint in his eye. During the drive from Dubai he had shown a strange fascination, bordering on the obsessive, with the illicit activities of the Musandam and was clearly keen to find out more.
‘We will not see any where we are going!’ laughed our host as he picked at one of his toes. ‘They only work at night.’
‘What do they smuggle?’ I asked, trying not to stare at his ears.
‘They bring sheep and goats from Iran,’ said Ahmed after a long pause. ‘It’s only forty kilometres from here on the other side of the Strait of Hormuz. They are sent to the UAE. On the way back they take televisions, cigarettes, mobile phones, whatever people bring from Dubai. It’s big business here: the town could not survive without it. If you go to the harbour at night you’ll find it’s very busy, lots of people. Did you see all those little boats?’
‘You mean the orange ones?’
‘Yes,’ Ahmed nodded. ‘Those are the boats people use for smuggling. They are very full when they leave Khasab!’ He made an arc in the air with his hands as if showing how high the piles of illicit goods were stacked in the skiffs. ‘Sometimes people make two or three crossings in a night: they are young so they have a lot of energy and enthusiasm!’ he smiled, eyes widening. ‘But it’s dangerous.’
With his scar and missing tooth, I suddenly felt Ahmed bore an unsettling resemblance to a pirate – or perhaps a smuggler.
‘Because of all the ships?’ I asked, clearing my throat.
‘Yes, you have to be careful of ships, but the big problem is the Iranian coast guard: if they catch you, you’re finished.’ Ahmed’s tone was now more serious and he seemed to be considering his words. ‘Or you can pay them money, but that is expensive.’ He studied us for a moment with intelligent, probing eyes before getting up. ‘Relax and enjoy the view,’ he smiled and sauntered back to the helm.
As we approached the fjord, or khor, rugged mountains rose on either side, the steep angles of their layers of strata that disappeared into the sea looking like decks on giant, sinking ships. The Arabian Plate, which includes the Musandam Peninsula, is pushing under its Eurasian counterpart, dragging the mountains around the fjord down into the earth. This, together with the sea filling the sinking valleys, is what created the spectacular scenery that surrounded us. The angle may look dramatic, but the speed at which the mountains are sliding beneath the sea is geological: only the occasional earthquake betrays the magnitude of the forces at play. We sailed on, straining our eyes as we looked up at the craggy outcrops and overhangs that cast short shadows on the now turquoise sea. It was strange to be surrounded by water and yet see land that was so dry, so dusty. The parched mountains appeared positively thirsty, ready, like some fabled land worthy of a sailor’s yarn, to suck all the moisture out of any soul foolish enough to set foot on them. According to legend, Sinbad once ventured through these waters and it was not hard to imagine the trepidation that these surroundings would have put into the hearts of seafarers of yore and easy to understand why they would fear monsters and fantastic creatures dwelling in such realms. Indeed, as I lay reclined on the cushions in the rising temperature of the late morning, I found myself starting to visualise dancing skeletons appearing on the mountain tops and giant statues in the next bay grinding slowly to life as we sailed into view. Yet how different these mountains would look, I thought, if suddenly rain were to fall often enough to turn dust to moist soil, barren rock becoming green as bushes and flowers sprouted on ledges and slopes, gradually transforming the harsh, inhospitable environment into a gentler, more familiar landscape.
We had left all signs of civilisation behind, once again transported to a barren world that could have been on another planet or in another time. Ahead, the view was hazy in the heat, the mountains no more than smoky shapes lined up one behind the other until they reached the backdrop of the bright grey sky. Somewhere among those peaks was the road to Jebel al Harim along which we had driven the day before. I watched as a short distance away a flock of cormorants, little more than fluttering silhouettes against the fulgent sea, flew past before settling some way ahead, barely making a splash as they landed. We continued to ply the waters of the fjord, the sun finally breaking through the haze as it rose ever higher. By the time we reached Telegraph Island halfway up, a delicious smell of garlic was hanging over the boat as the cook, squatting on his haunches in his camel-coloured dishdasha, put the final touches to the buffet lunch. Shading my eyes with my hand, I looked at the uninviting rock where in the nineteenth century British telegraph operators toiled at a repeater station. For years on end, they listened to and retransmitted messages in Morse code sent between London and British India. The story goes that the isolation and boredom of the posting drove the lonely men insane, whither the expression to have ‘gone round the bend’, the island being just beyond a turn in the empty fjord. Absorbed by the surroundings, I watched the sunlight, dazzling as it danced on the water. Suddenly, the motor stopped and we were surrounded by stillness. One of the sinewy sailors wove his way aft and, with strength surprising for his build, threw the two-fluked anchor overboard, its splash a moment later breaking the silence.
Ahmed told us we could go for a dip before lunch. I peered over the side. It was like looking into an aquarium: dozens of brightly coloured fish were gliding through water so clear I could see the seabed. Minutes later, we were swimming and floating in the deliciously warm fjord with the fearless little fish. Yellow, orange, shimmering silver or with thick iridescent stripes, they greedily nibbled on the chicken drumsticks the captain had given us to feed them. When I was left with little more than a bone to hold, I let it sink and watched the fish dive down after it before I began to swim the short distance to Telegraph Island, while Frédéric clambered back aboard. The rocks near the shore’s edge were rough underfoot as I gingerly climbed out of the water. From out at sea, the island had looked to be covered by a thin carpet of grass, but now, close up, I saw that the blades of hardy green were sparsely spread. At the far end, a couple of hundred metres away, stood the crumbling remains of a low building and two or three small trees. I started to head towards them, but the coarse ground proved too painful underfoot. I turned to look at the dhow and waved to Frédéric who was watching me, his blond hair reflecting the light. Out of the water and away from the shade, the heat was searing and I could feel my skin beginning to burn. I picked my way back over the sharp rocks and, like an ungainly merman desperate to return to more comfortable surroundings, slipped into the welcoming sea.
Back on board, I dried myself off and joined Frédéric and Ahmed at the stern where the cook had set out lunch. We stuffed ourselves with chicken, saffron-scented rice and salad and tore off pieces of flatbread to scoop up the fresh hummus, its delicious mix of lemon and garlic flavours making self-restraint impossible. I ate far more than I should have, and quickly began to feel sleepy. The cook handed round a plate with oranges, but I could not eat any more. As we weighed anchor and set off back to Khasab we again made ourselves comfortable on the firm cushions and watched as we once more passed the mountains and a small settlement I had not noticed on the way out, perhaps because I had been on the other side of the boat. It was made up of little more than a dozen or so cream-coloured buildings interspersed with palm trees and telegraph poles. There being no obvious road to the coastal village, I reckoned the few boats moored along the shore were probably the only means for its inhabitants to reach the outside world. In my state of digestive torpor, I found myself momentarily musing how bucolic life must be in such a remote place, far away from the pressure and strains of modern-day living. But, as we sailed on, I realised that one man’s holiday idyll was another’s prison and what, for me, might be an
escape from stress could for those living there be absence of opportunity. My mind wandered to Ali and Sayyid and I wondered where they would be in twenty years’ time.
Just as I was drifting into daydreams, there was an excited cry from Ahmed. In an instant, one of the sailors was kneeling down beside us, pointing a weathered hand enthusiastically out to sea and repeating something in Arabic. Suddenly alert, I strained my eyes and saw dark forms curving out of the water and then slipping back beneath the waves: it was a pod of dolphins. We watched as they swam first together, then apart, before they disappeared for a while. Searching the shimmering sea until our eyes ached, we eventually saw them resurface further away. It was almost as good as seeing a leopard and I could feel the warmth of a smile spreading over my face. As they dived for the last time before vanishing from view, I had the sensation of having witnessed a minor miracle, these beautiful creatures managing to survive so near to one of the world’s busiest waterways. It reminded me of their cousins I had seen some years earlier in the Bosphorus, another shipping thoroughfare and an equally surprising spot to see these graceful animals.
As we sailed back into Khasab, we thanked Ahmed and the crew, who waved us goodbye as warmly as if we were life-long friends. It felt like we had been away for days not just hours, and on a journey to another world, not merely round the bend. The sun was now an orange orb descending slowly into the sea. On my skin I could feel where it had cast its gaze and the waters of the Persian Gulf had left their salty dust: it had been a wonderful day at sea, but different from others.
***
In the evening, showered and changed, we ventured out into Khasab. The main settlement of Oman’s tiniest governorate is not much more than a little town, its 18,000 residents inhabiting an uninspiring collection of buildings spread out on the flat valley floor. Asphalted roads carved up the sandy ground into triangles, squares and other geometrical shapes, each containing a few buildings or a walled garden with trees. Otherwise, the part of town between the harbour and the toy-sized airport was surprisingly verdant, groves of thick-trunked date palms providing a real sense of oasis beneath the arid mountains. The commercial centre, known as the new souk, was made up of three or four rows of shabby stores in whitewashed buildings, together with a post office and a barber shop. The parades were separated by an open space where, in the fading light, we parked alongside a collection of dusty vehicles. A few drooping trees and thorn bushes that had escaped foraging by goats helped brighten up what was a rather depressing sight. We wandered along the parade of brightly lit shops in which wholesale packs of food and bottles of soft drinks were piled high under polythene wrap and where ultraviolet bug zappers fizzed and buzzed on tired walls. Other stores, with signs outside euphemistically describing them as ‘trading’ or ‘import-export’ companies, were empty except for a battered desk, a couple of chairs and swarthy men hanging around and talking. They looked at us blankly, their moustaches ceasing to twitch as they stopped conversations to watch us amble by.
Finding little of interest, we went back to our 4x4 and drove the short distance inland to the old souk. Predictably for such a small town, it turned out to be modest in size. We strolled around looking at boxes of spices, beads, scarves and clay incense burners from behind which the stallholders studied us intently. At one of the stands, I picked up a jerz, a type of axe unique to Musandam that I had read about, and wondered whether it would make an interesting souvenir or just add to the clutter at home. The old man to whose modest collection of wares it belonged sat in silence as I examined the steel axe-head engraved with traditional diamond and chevron designs. He watched me, dark, mouse-like eyes peering out from a leathery face as I ran my fingers across the metal, trying to overcome my ambivalence about anything with a dangerous blade. The almond wood handle into which lines and crosses had been carefully carved was smooth to the touch and as long as my arm. A jerz was once an essential tool for chopping firewood, using as a walking stick on the rugged terrain, or for fending off caracal lynx or leopards, when there was still a reasonable chance of seeing one. Today, the distinctive hatchet is still a key accessory for men here, but, I decided, one I could do without. Smiling at the stallholder, I returned the axe to the top of the rough tea chest where I had found it. He played with his matted beard and nodded almost imperceptibly, his eyes now avoiding direct contact with my own.
***
The next day, we visited the old fort built by the Portuguese, a square construction near the sea with a squat tower at each corner of its thick, rendered walls and a red, white and green Omani flag hanging languidly from a pole. We walked past a couple of old dhows propped on stands and made our way along the crazy paving path which formed a sort of neatly bordered causeway over a sea of grey gravel. On either side of the ogee-arched entrance stood an old canon and over the dark brown double doors was a sign marked ‘Khasab Castle’, above which a line of Arab calligraphy curved like a scimitar. The iconic fort had been meticulously restored and offered an image of perfection far removed from what life could ever have been like in the seventeenth century. The brochure said it was originally a supply station for Portuguese ships that would stop off to stock up on water and dates as they navigated their way through the straits. Now, in the tidy courtyard with its crazy paving, small fishing boats were balanced on stands, oars resting against their sides, notices in front of them detailing their features. We made our way round the circular tower in the centre, which proudly predates both the stronghold and the Lusitanians, and headed towards a couple of palm trees where we took advantage of the shade. Diagonally across from us, four slender men in smart white dishdashas, red-chequered kefiyehs and large sunglasses, were looking in an open doorway. They strolled round the courtyard, mobile phones in their hands, chatting and pausing occasionally to read the various signs that explained the fort’s history or described exhibits.
We slowly ascended the steps to the crenellated battlements where we wandered along looking at the dense groves of date palms that extended inland through the town. I could feel the top of my head burning and wished I had brought a hat. From the loudspeakers of a blue-domed mosque a short distance away, the adhan began, the voice of the muezzin echoing out over the rooftops and the plantations until it seemed to reach the surrounding mountains themselves. The majority of Omanis are Ibadi, a conservative form of Islam separate from Sunnis and Shias and another layer in the special identity felt by the people here. I find the call to prayer atmospheric, but it has never held the same appeal for me as it does for Frédéric. Anyone watching him listen to the lyrical voice could have been forgiven for thinking he understood every word. We continued along the parapet until we were facing the fishing wharf with its rows of little blue and white boats and, further on, the main harbour from where we had sailed the day before. Beyond, stretched the green waters of the Strait of Hormuz and, somewhere in the haze, the shores of Iran. Standing in this sleepy corner of Oman, it was strange to think we were so near to the shipping lanes through which a third of the world’s oil passes. The adhan finished, the echo of the muezzin’s last words faded quickly and silence once again descended on the little town of Khasab.
It was time to head back to Dubai, but first we wanted to pick up some water for the journey. The engine growled deeply as we trundled along the almost deserted streets towards the uninspiring rows of shops we had visited the previous evening. I looked at the houses as we passed by, mostly simple constructions little more than concrete boxes, some painted white or cream, a few decorated with a satellite dish or a wrought-iron flourish around the windows. Two figures walking towards us on the other side of the road caught my eye: small boys hand in hand, one a head taller than the other. As we got nearer, I recognised them as Ali and Sayyid, their school bags on their backs. They did not see us behind the tinted glass and a moment later we had driven by, a large white vehicle like any other. I wondered if someone had given them a lift into town at the start of the new school week or whether, when they sat down at
their desks, they would already be exhausted from the long trek, their dusty feet aching. I was impressed by their, or their parents’, determination that they get an education, but was saddened at the thought of the few possibilities I imagined were available to them. The field of opportunities was, I supposed, probably as barren as the mountains that surrounded the town, the chances of major change as likely as regular rainfall coming to this corner of Arabia. Some years hence, might Ali and Sayyid be the ones taking tourists out to the khor, I wondered, proudly showing them the stark beauty of their region, or would they, like so many others, end up risking imprisonment, or even their lives, as smugglers? I would never know whether they would grow up seeing their tiny Omani enclave as a scenic oasis in which they felt fortunate to live, or as a harsh, rocky prison devoid of prospects. Yet, I realised, my imaginings of what the two boys might want or aspire to were no more than personal dreams, a product of my own worldview. And I could no more change their lives than I could the climate. With a fanfare of revs we pulled up in front of one of the tiny stores in the town centre, Frédéric delighting in the noise of the engine. A short while later, provisions acquired, we bade farewell to Khasab and set off on our way back to Dubai, the Land Cruiser purring on the newly-asphalted road as I slipped into top gear.
Marguerites of Hope
‘I take it as a sign from God,’ declares the vicar at the far end of the church, ‘that there is hope for this city and for this country, that on today, Good Friday, He should send us tourists.’
Speaking into a microphone, the interpreter translates his words into Arabic as the small congregation gathered in the first rows listens intently. In front of me, a young soldier, barely out of his teens, wearing grey camouflage fatigues and a black SWAT vest, stands watching and listening, an AK47 held loosely in front of him, a black beret tucked in his pocket. His thick, wavy hair is not shaved in the military fashion you might expect, making him look as if he has been hurriedly dressed up in a uniform rather than trained in a boot camp.
From Souk to Souk Page 12