schon fast schwarz der endlose Strand
jedoch auf den leckenden Spiegeln der Meereszungen
gleißt die verschlöschende Wärme des Abends
weiche pudrige Nuancen im nassen Sand

Oman - Generosity of Spirit

The plane late to land
In Istanbul and
A man took us on
To our next plane - not yet gone.
 
We fell into our seats
Supped the few treats
The plane it then flew
But our bags - did not come too.

Arranging their arrival isn't hard
(The ATM then swallows our card)
Offered a lift by a nice young man
Such is the generosity of Oman
Two in the morning, no news from our hosts
But the door is left open, we enter as ghosts.
 
We wake and we walk and we sit in the sun
We wait till our rock ready car will come
When it does arrive inside we hop
Make our way to the nearest shop
There to buy the essentials lost
We’ll ask the airline to cover the cost.

Frustrating, our wait
For our bags that are late
We had planned more for our time on the way
But by the hour they arrived
The day could only provide
Enough time for a lunch in Fins bay.
 
It was cheap it was good
Behind a screen of rough wood
On the street where the cats roamed free
And then on from Fins
To our stop at Al Jinz
To watch the turtles emerge from the sea.

Sama Ras Al Jinz

The nighttime comes, the mosquitoes bite
The sun clipped hills, fade into night
And as we wait, for dinner served
Another date, A fruit preserved.

The books are read, the phones are swiped
A bite of bread, the texts are typed
A desert breeze, blows in to camp
We will not freeze, no sign of damp.

Under the stars, In a dark black sky
We wait for dinner, Sigrun and I.

Morning Turtles

It was dark around four
When we left our hut door
And found our way down to the beach,
The guide was not there
And we weren’t aware
Of the path to the sands we should reach.
 
So we drove the rough land
Rocks to each hand
Till the track would take us no more,
And we scrambled down cliffs
Muttering endless what-ifs
And finally down to the shore.

The waves were so black
As we searched for a track
Of a turtle who’d come by to lay,
And as the moonlight shone bright
And lightened our night
Her track appeared clear as the day.
 
But it was a track of her leaving
Heaving back to the heaving
Ocean that crashed to the strand,
And her eggs were now deep
In the nest where they’ll keep
Until the hatched should dig out of the sand.

That she was gone nevertheless
Didn’t fail to impress
For her task had continued for years,
And who then are we
To go to down the sea
And expect nature to respond to our leers.

Hidden Village

Turning off the metal
We head into the flats
The plain loosely peppered
The hills mimick felt hats.
 
The way graded smooth
The occasional groove
The wheel it does pull
The sand it does soothe.
 
Bumping over the plain
At one, once again
With the landscape through which we had ridden
And now deep in a land
Of gravel and sand
We search for a village now hidden.

There’s no sign and no post
No arrow to this ghost
A place truly hidden from view
Then over a ridge
Across a wadi, no bridge
Our aim it proves to be true.
 
The dunes they have swallowed
Block houses now hollowed
Rooms lost where sand is now piled
And we wander around
Camera shutters they sound
Among the dunes and the tracks of the wild.

Who built this place here
With hardly a fear
Of the impending drift of the sand?
Who would live in this place
Only daily to face
The impact of God’s awful hand?

Who swept out the rooms
With sand pushing brooms
Always daily and oftentimes more?
And when did they say
Let’s call it a day
And move to the village next door?
 
We won’t ever know
For we turn round and go
To the dust-free resort at Al Hadd
And while we’d find staying there
Far too easy to bear
Of the juice we are only too glad.

Evening Turtles

The turtle story
In all its glory
Is told in the Centre for them
It’s the place that we’d been
In the morning unseen
So we thought we’d try it again.
 
It’s different at night
And hardly a delight
To be thrown in with so many others
Not for the night
Morning’s lonely respite
But as many as fifty-two covers.
 
In a dodgy old bus
Them, you and us
Are transported in a way rather cheap
And on the beach wait the men
The tourists to pen
Into flocks of chattering sheep.

A turtle is found
Into action we bound
Jostling to ogle the unseen sight
And find her we do
And wrap round for a view
Through phones that only work in the light.
 
The poor creature pants
And we ring her like ants
Wondering what to do then
As she climbs out of her hole
A deep sandy bowl
And faces a thick human pen.

Stand aside
Cries the guide
Move your arse
Let her pass
And reluctantly she is set free
A passage is left
And the sand she does cleft
As she heaves her way down to the sea.
 
And into the waves
The water she craves
To vanish from the sight of all us
And we stand there and wonder
At the sight we did plunder
Then back we climb into the bus.
 
This is no way to know
The wonders that flow
From the life that is older than we 
Just to capture a snap
Through phones that shoot crap
Of a creature so beautifully free.

Sur Dhows

It’s the dhows that brought us here
At this quieter time of year
When tourist coaches are away
And the town is less at play
When the cafes quieten down
And there’s fewer folk in town.
 
The dhows that plied their trade
From India to Said
To Zanzibar along the coast
Trading spice for slaves the most. 
While dhows are from times past
The craftsmanship does last
In the hands of just a few
Indians who make and crew.

The dhows are made by men
Without a drawing pen
With a chisel and a saw
With a plane and nothing more
Shaping timbers as they go
To ease the water’s flow
Selecting just the wood
For hulls both strong and good.
 
And amongst them we do dwell
And the methods they do tell
Not by words with many frills
But by actions and by skills
They are quiet in their crafts
Sawing struts and carving shafts
Pinning planks with nails and glue
To a form so good and true.

A skeleton of many ribs
Masts locked to whittled jibs
The keel deep and sure and strong
The prow elegant and long
There is fretwork on the side
There’s a measure here of pride
For these men are few remaining
With few youngsters for the training.
 
It takes months to craft a dhow
Despite traditional know how
A timeless craft in form and way
For journeys far beyond the bay.

Wind, Mud and Stone

The northern winds came by
And lasted all day through 
Blowing sand across the plains
Warm gusts with force they blew.
 
The camels and the goats
Settled down as it went by
The birds they sat on highways
Daring not to chance the sky.
 
The hills were hidden from our view
The horizon misty and untrue
We drove into the endless plain
To seek out new sights once again.

While castles here they do restore
Banu Bin Ali tells of war
Of battles raging, breaking walls
Of dynasties that rise and fall
And while this matters most of all
We are keen to see the wall.
 
For this castle is of mud and stone
And time has worn it to the bone
The ramparts they are cracked and rough
Now propped by blocks of stronger stuff.
The walls are turned to softer slurry
As in the cracks the geckos scurry
The wasps hunt, the lizards dart
The castle is left to fall apart.
 
And nearby the mosque is remade and taught
For this is what the Imam brought
The order to keep the people calm
To end the battles, to soothe the harm.

Back to the coast, wind along the shore
No fishing today, the northerlies roar
We wander the harbours
And pick at the shells
No odour of fish, no lingering smells
Villages merge with the sky in pastel hues
Small cubic houses, soft rounded views
Wadi waters whisked into rippling foam
Fisher-folk wander not far from their home
Today is a day to stay locked inside
To enjoy the wind howling
To settle and hide.
 
But there are stones to be seen
In black, red and green
And they litter the plains all around
So she walks to the hills
For good or for ill
Her energy continues unbound
And as the wind bends
And darkness descends
He heads off in the car to find her
But she’s back on the sofa
She only went so far
He can’t be annoyed; he can’t bind her.

Beauty of the Virgin

When it comes to beauty
There’s something best
When the natural landscape
Hasn’t stood the test
Of those who think they can improve
The way rocks lay and waters move.
 
We’re sure that most enjoy the order
The still blue water
The hard-edged border
But we see this as a sad abuse
The virgin despoiled to benefit use
Tamed to provide a tourist pleasure
The desecration of a natural treasure.

The dunes lie south and in we drive
Where camels roam and Bedouins strive.

We stay the night under silent skies
In a small oasis with tempered cries
Of many small birds and subdued words
With simple food and showers crude
With camels to ride a source of pride 
A sunset, red sand, sweet coffee, God’s land.
 
As the night descends
Across the firmament wends
The stars and the moon
Days heat gone too soon
A reed hut with rugs laid
Cold sleep is hard made.

As the camels return to their fold
Dawn brings an end to the cold
Skies rekindle their glow
Breakfast warming and slow
And after the dawning
We rest here the morning
The return of the heat
Warm sand under feet
Recording all things to recall
The nuances felt big and small.
 
This oasis is land mostly pure
The beauty from a hand that is sure
Of man’s true place in all this
Seeing the presence of bliss
Not changing what is already demure.

Die weiche Haut der Erde,
Manifestierte Musik des Windes
Endlos schwingend unbestechlich
Den Meeren gleich unaufhaltbar
Sie rinnt durch die schaufelnden Hände 
Und fließt zurück in die Mulde 
Der Schritt sinkt in den kalten Sand
Und fordert ein ausdauerndes Maß 
 
Davor türmt sich das weiche dichte Fell der Kamele. 
Nasenöffnungen spiegeln den regelmäßigen Atem
die ruhigen Augen thronen mit den langen geschwungenen Wimpern auf dem erhaben getragenen Haupt
ihre samtig weichen Lippen greifen die ausdauernde trockene Kost
In stetem Schritt schwanken sie verlässlich 
in Balance mit ihrer Heimat
Die breiten Füße setzen sie mit sicheren Tritt ohne Hast
 
All dies Ruhe und Würde.

Mud and Glass

Driving back across the sand
We head for solid land
The tyres down low
The dunes warm glow
Swaying gently along the track
The camels watch our back.

We carry on west
To our Nizwa rest
Past the city of Al Bilaad
A town soft and hard
A mud stone wall
Round turrets and all
A vast and complicated place
Rebuilding at a pace
Remaking a once dense town
That time and rain is bringing down.

We pass through rooms, Interlocked in plan
With many a stair, up which we ran
A peered through arch, a date palm span
The vacant homes of a long-lost clan.
 
The doors are locked on the stroke of two
We leave in search of something new.

Oman Across Ages in glacial halls
Highly polished floors, sheer glass walls
A richly told story of Omani success
(Less on the bad bits, no need to depress)
Oman as a centre of global trade
The ideas and wealth, well displayed
The frankincense gold, the stone copper mould
The aflaj skills, the European ills
Two Kings highly praised, they paid for the build
It’s a truly ambitious exhibit they’ve willed.
 
So on to Nizwa, to big city lights
To the mud house of the teacher
Restored to its height
With views from the roof
Of the old town and parks
Then down to the streets
City living re-sparked.

Nizwa Nights

In old Nizwa the day starts slow
Few tourists join us, no place to go
Just narrow streets in search of peace
Waiting for the mufti prayers to cease.
 
Breakfast taken in rooftop shade
Bread and spices in bowls displayed
On trays of darkest scented wood
With karac tea that’s sweet and good. 
 
And down again to the souks of old
Now housed in concrete to keep in cold
Fruits and fishes, date paste dishes
Vegetables and assorted wishes
Tomorrow we shall return to see
The sale of goats in market three.

The mornings are quiet in this old town
It’s evenings here that ripple the gown
The quiet stays through the afternoon
In the heat all activity swoons
The workers that were up at dawn
Disappear when the sun is warm.

Men and ladies stroll separately
Enjoying casual company
Supping juice and snacking dates
Everyone for the evening waits.
 
And when the sun dips down
The streets they fill in town
Shutters open and lights blaze
The sharp of night dispels the haze
People amble and they talk
Shuffling shoes, the slow walk

White Dishdasha on boys, black abaya on girls
Children scampering, twists and twirls
Prams are pushed by content men
Demure wives are smiling then.

We wonder at the culture seen
The common clothes, the covering
It’s said that this is being oppressed
But there’s a fanciness in people dressed
With hint of colour and splash of shine
Being demure with a hinted sign
Through dark flashed eyes and upright bearing 
Manicured nails and elegance wearing
A confidence born of ancient breeding
There’s no oppression in our reading.
 
We roam the parts where immigrants meet
Where small men gather to talk and eat
We watch their carrom and are invited in
The flick of discs the chance to win
The white dust and the chattering
The richness that the Indians bring
It’s a world apart from Omani cheer
The divide is deep, the status clear
But both are graced with deep respect
Nothing but joy here we detect.

Goats and Aflaj

We’re up with the mufti
To go for a shufti
At the goat market widely admired
It’s too early in the day
Breakfast’s ages away
But we struggle on even though tired.
 
There’s a hurry to it all
Owners set out their stall
Running circles around the pen
Their goats are pulled past
The buyers sit fast
Poker is played by these men.
 
The players test teats
The goats let out bleats
Both sides give a mutual shrug
A look at the teeth
An exchange very brief
And the goat changes hands with a tug.

In the markets next door
Vegetables cover the floor
And again only men come to buy
It seems in Oman
And maybe the Koran
The shopping is left to the guy.
 
After breakfast we leave
Through the town we do weave
On our way to the Jebels beyond
But we first take a peep
At a cave wide and deep
And wonder at the rocks we’ll rest on.

We climb up to Misfah
Squeeze out of the car
Up a crack in the rock where we’ll stop
It’s a fantastic place
Mostly narrow staircase
Mud rooms and a terrace on top.
 
Below terraces line 
The wadi in a fine
Tracery of aflaj and palm
A swath of green through the rock
Waterways interlock
The pathways are shaded and calm.
 
Climbing back to the roof
Feeling awfully aloof
Above donkeys that continue to bray
We order a drink
And sit back and think
Of the wonders we’ve seen through this day.

Jebels and Generosity

In the morning we start for Sham
Then choose Akhdar instead
There are numerous Jebels up here
Each one of them turns the head.
 
The views from the top are of sharp pointed peaks
Lined up like saw blades and not for the meek
But man terraces the slopes with dates and corn
On precipitous steps, no barriers to warn.
 
And he’s also left nails
Scattered over the ground
And it just takes one rogue one
To stop our tyre going round
We’re at the top of the world
On a steep sideways slope
Should the jack even work
We doubt it could cope
Two young Omanis go to it
And before very long
The wheel has been changed
And we could carry on.

But that isn’t to be
For one of the men
Offers us lunch at his home
To be served, there and then
We go to his house
His family there too
We sit on his porch
And eat rice and beef stew.
 
We meet most of his daughters
Who give us rose water
His wife appears too
Who made the fine stew
We chat through Google
And learn much in that hour
Before parting their company
Exchanging gifts sweet and sour.
And as we would leave
The shy girls want a selfie
And the wife comes out too
Flask full of sweet tea
Which barely stays in the cup
As we bounce off down the lane
Their best wishes in our ears
A joyful refrain.

Driving back to our place
A man patches the wheel
Air pressure and brace
No fuss and few rials
The generosity of spirit
The quiet skills that abound
Are deep traits of Oman
So enjoyably found.

Dirt and Fish

The last morning in our mud-built roost
From our eerie we will go
After Breakfast in the morning sun
Chilled by deep shadow. 
 
We drive today, the last goodbye
To the Jebel range that climbs so high
We buy the fuel and check the tyre
At first the road does not inspire
Then turning off we take the dirt
Between the rocky crags inert
The narrow way on steep cliff edges
The bouncing rocks the jutting ledges
Testing the wheels yet again
The switchback turns, our nerves are slain
Skidding around a final bend
To a road that’s made, a way smoothened.

Amongst the rocks they do impress
From tarmac they soften, a safe caress
More seen than felt from highway 9
We seek the backroads one more time.
 
As we turn towards Rustaq
The road again it leaves the black
Now the way is truly rough
The nerves are strong, the engine tough
Up a gorge and down once more
Along a wadi, the arms get sore
40km, the track is long
The test is great, the will is strong
The mountains sheer above our heads
The blacks the greens the whites the reds
We stop and rest and snap a view
Of a wadi that we’ve passed through
We drive again and over the rise
The tarmac starts to our surprise.

From here it’s a drive of normalcy
Passing through small towns we see
The life that is Oman out here
But how it thrives is never clear.
 
We stop at a spring and rest our feet
In warm fresh water the rocks excrete
The fish attend and manicure
She jumps right in and he’s less sure
His first good coffee for quite a while
Without it life can be a trial.
 
And so back to Muscat to rest our bones
To sit in comfort and use our phones
Along the beach to find once more
The jewellery that adorns the shore.

Muscat

On our last day we simply drift
Fixing things and buying gifts
From the markets in Muscat
Both the real and the tourist tat
There are spices in small pots
An anvil and forget me nots
Little bottles for the nose
To be filled with liquid rose
There are dates and there are sweets
Omani flavoured Christmas treats.
 
Afternoon on the beach again
Sifting rich loose damp terrain
In a car wash, texting friends
Eating well at journeys’ end
Driving through the town at night
Filing petrol, packing tight
Preparing for the early morn
When we’ll leave Oman, before the dawn.

December 2024