Once we’d left Nizwa, we spent the day ‘mile munching.’ I’ve only just heard that saying, but I love it… and I intend to use it from now on… frequently.
We drove and drove and drove.
And drove.
We drove for approximately ten hours through the barren and flat, Oman desert land. The road seemed to go on forever, disappearing into the distance. Occasionally there would be a hill… or a bump… but most it was just barren and flat… with nothing to see for miles, no matter which direction you were looking.
I’ve been led to believe that this vast expanse of land is the Rub’ al Khali… otherwise known as the Empty Quarter, the world’s largest sand desert. It is Oman’s quintessential road trip, and we endured the monotony of the long, straight stretches. Some might consider it rather adventurous, but after a few hours of endless monotony and desolate, the excitement wore thin.
Except for when we saw camels.
There were lots of camels.
We were making steady progress toward the southwestern region of Oman. Destination: Salalah.
The closer we crept, the further it seemed.
We camped that evening on the sandy beach dunes of the Arabian Sea. Now this was an unforgettable adventure.
The cool air, the sound of the waves crashing on the shore, the silence of the surrounding desert, the orange sky as the sun went down and revealed a canvas of stars.
It was truly wonderful.
Sand, when camping, is far superior to rocks. I will admit that.
Had it not been for the excessive amounts of trash, the multitude of killer crabs and the torrential gusts of wind… everything would’ve been perfectly paradisiacal.
As magical as this experience was and as stunning as the coastline was, we did share the stage with an obscene amount of plastic. Blue and white plastic debris littered the sand dunes and shoreline.
Nearby, there were two large skips, and it seemed that people had made an effort to dispose of the trash properly. However, the absence of lids left the garbage at the mercy of the relentless and powerful wind, which had scattered it far and wide.
And.., I was just joking about the killer crabs.
Kinda…
I spotted an enormous crab hole less than a foot away from where I was attempting to set up my tent. My survival (or fear) instincts immediately kicked in:
Danger! Danger! Danger!
This litter landscape beach suddenly felt a lot less inviting. Crabs. I quickly covered the hole with sand and refocused on getting my tent properly set up and secured in the middle of a windstorm.
It was a near impossible feat. A few people accidentally let go of their tents and then had to chase buoyant nylon as it danced across the dunes.
At one point, I was fighting the gales and desperately trying to hold my tent in place… but was about three metres away from my luggage and tent pegs. I had no idea what to do.
Could I let go and quickly retrieve my luggage and equipment?
No.
That decision would’ve resulted in rapid departure of my nylon shelter.
I held on to my portable home for dear life… and then heroically flew my tent over to my belongings, like a big beach kite…
I skipped out the part that I had to shout for someone to ‘please, please, please’ come and help me… but why ruin a great story with the truth?
I didn’t sleep terribly well… but then again, I rarely do… especially when I’m trapped in the confines of a small tent, alternating between hot flashes and cold spells.
In the dead of the night, I still couldn’t shake the feeling that the killer crab was plotting his revenge. Of course, it was only my tent flap fluttering in the wind, but for a significant portion of the evening, I was convinced it was the crab… desperate to get in and make me pay. After all, I was the one who’d destroyed his front door.
In the morning, a crew arrived to begin the laborious job of picking up the garbage. There were about four of them to do a 400-person job. There was one man who just stood, arms crossed on the back bed of one of their trucks, and watched. We figured perhaps he was a prison guard and the cleaners, prisoners. The reality though, was he was probably just a lazy boss.
We all know those.
We were back on the road again… and not too far from Salalah.
Before we pulled into the city, we made a stop at a frankincense forest. It’s humorous as it wasn’t really a ‘forest’ at all. It was more like a rocky desert with a few bushes.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen frankincense before. The branches of the bush were quite prickly and all I could think was, “What an odd gift to give to a baby.”
Baby Jesus, that is.
To me, it looked like nothing more than a prickly plant… but upon further research I discovered;
“Frankincense is an aromatic gum resin containing a volatile oil that is used in incense and perfumes. Frankincense was valued in ancient times in worship and as a medicine and is still an important incense resin, particularly in Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox churches.”
See? …my learning continues.
Wasn’t it was gold, frankincense and myrrh the wise men gave to the Baby Jesus?
Yes.
So get this- frankincense and gold used to be equal in value. Obviously it’s not anymore. And… if anyone is wondering, myrrh is a sacred anointing oil.
After being in this forest, I swear I started seeing frankincense plants everywhere I looked. I very well may have, considering Salalah was once the hub of the frankincense trade.
Our hotel in Salalah was whack. No word of a lie… it was a massive maze. The place was designed much like a fort, with four sprawling wings of guest rooms, each one the length of a city block. Getting to our rooms was a trek… and then attempting to figure out general directions from there was nothing short of an expedition…
It was startling how many times we all got turned around, messed up or took the wrong elevator in this labyrinth of a hotel. It was comical at the beginning… but getting lost too many times and for such an extended period of time turned to frustration very quickly.
Thank goodness the reception manager was a kind, hot Egyptian, which made the disorientation slightly worth all the hassle.
After we’d all settled in, a lot of us met at one of the swank restaurants in the hotel’s expansive mall courtyard. I was originally concerned about the prices and hesitant to go in, but we ended up receiving a 15% hotel affiliated discount. I figured the discount was compensation for us all being able to find the restaurant at all.
It certainly seems that a lot of the crew have something or other to gripe about. Guess that’s part and parcel with a tour like this.
I’m no exception…
People, comments, likes and dislikes, stops, timing, camping spots, dinner choices… it doesn’t seem to stop.
Tonight it was Sue.
Sue is lovely, but she has a habit of letting whatever is in her head, come right out of her mouth, often without much consideration as to how her words might affect the person or the situation. She lacks awareness in that regard.
Her father is Canadian, and though she was born and raised in the UK, she’s quite proud of her Canadian heritage, despite not knowing what a Caesar is… or poutine. She’s an avid birder, embodying some of the stereotypical quirks that can irritate non-birders. Does that make sense? Her passion is admirable, but her enthusiasm for the feathered fowls can sometimes be overwhelming… and irritating.
Sue recently acquired a new boyfriend, much to her delight. She often brings him up in conversations, and a he refers to him as “my man,” which I find a bit nauseating. She has a tendency to occasionally overshare about “my man” and it’s hard to know how to respond when she does.
Smile and nod.
That being said, “my man” appears to have given Sue a boost of confidence. She’s carefree… but extremely outspoken when it comes to voicing her frustrations and she tends to fixate on things she deems as unfair. Recently, she’s repeatedly complained about Warren and myself being in the same cook group because we’re both vegetarians.
*Note- neither Warren nor myself had anything to do with the roster.
And even if we had… who cares? Other groups start with a meat dish and adapt it for vegetarians… we start with a veggie dish and add meat.
It’s hardly mutiny-worthy.
Whereas I might just leave the tour if I were to have too much, Sue is the sort of person who would start a mutiny. She has an uncanny knack for ‘stirring the pot.’ She’s been floating the idea around of conducting polls to determine trivial things like ‘how spicy the food should be,’ among other absurd matters. These are hills she doesn’t need to die on, yet she seems determined to tackle them anyway.
Most recently, Sue was upset about people teaming up for hotel rooms. That evening, her frustration was directed at everyone who has secured a permanent roommate. I tried explaining that Denise and I had originally only paired up for the sole reason of hosting hotel afterparties… though the scarcity of alcohol made that plan seem rather pointless now.
Sue wasn’t having it.
I didn’t notice her leave in anger, but apparently, she did.
You can’t win for losing…
Loving this tour.
Brian was at our table that evening. Not Mr. Meat… that’s Brian from New York… but I’m talking about other Brian. Brian from Montana/Oregon/California. At the beginning of this Madventure, Brian had made a comment to someone that he wasn’t much into ‘group activities.’
Of course, a comment like this made the rounds. Someone who doesn’t like group activities on a group tour?
How absurd!
At first I found this remark utterly insane. How could he say something like that and be on a group tour?
Now… I’m whistling a different tune.
I get it.
I don’t think I’m into group activities anymore either.
Despite his usual reluctance, Brian temporarily set aside his reservations and not only agreed to join us for dinner but also decided to accompany us on our adventure the next day.
Our adventure day consisted of Denise, Judy, Mickey, myself and Brian.
It was a day of living dangerously. It didn’t necessarily start out that way… and I don’t particularly think any of us anticipated it would happen that way… but it did.
We were in Salalah, which I’ve already mentioned.
We had two nights here which… despite the chaos of the most perplexing hotel on the planet earth… was welcomed with wide open arms. It doesn’t seem like much, but when you’ve been bush/rock camping, you come to excessively appreciate the luxury of a comfy bed and a warm shower.
When Denise first suggested renting a car, I hesitated, although I was all in. The idea of navigating a car rental in the Middle East felt like a daunting task, but I was willing to take it on if it meant a few hours away from our motley crew.
Denise took care of everything, which was good because I really had no idea about the logistics of car rentals, rules, regulations and insurance in Oman.
The original plan had been to rent through a legit company at the airport, but then it just so happened that the hot Egyptian knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy…
We really weren’t confident that we were getting an actual car as opposed to a “driver” until the guy actually showed up to drop oh the vehicle.
His vehicle.
His own personal vehicle.
We hadn’t rented a car at all. We’d borrowed one.
There were no documents to sign… no insurance… and no deposit. He didn’t even ask to see Denise’s valid drivers license, let alone her international license.
Just a wave and an “See you tonight.”
Denise drove, Brian sat shotgun and Judy, Mickey and I took the back seat. We noticed there was another seat behind us and immediately felt guilty for having not invited Karen.
Not me, to set the record straight. I didn’t feel guilty. Nor did Denise feel the slightest amount of guilt.
Karen had confronted me at breakfast, accusatory and complaining that no one had invited her to do anything. I was alone and completely caught off guard. In broken English, stuttering and grasping at excuses… I tried my best to explain that we hadn’t really ‘invited’ anyone and plans had been made at dinner the previous evening.
She walked off.
OMG… this woman. If she didn’t spend all her time being miserable or sitting in her hotel room watching TV, perhaps she would’ve been part of the plan.
Ugh…
Mickey then called her and invited her. She declined… of course, because joining in wouldn’t mesh well with her victim status. Thank goodness she said no, as Brian later told us he would’ve backed out of the adventure had she joined in.
But yay… instead she remained in her room for the day and off we all went without her.
I’d seen on Google Maps that there was an abandoned ship along the Al Mughsail coast, so we decided that would be our first ‘port-o-call.’
Leaving the highway, we followed a secondary road which led to a series of locals roads which then led to a maze of unclassified gravel & dirt tracks. It was fun trying to navigate our way along the paths… and although we did stumble upon some stunning viewpoints, we were unable to reach the shipwreck.
The rugged road was far too steep, unstable and littered with loose gravel & large boulders for mere tourists to attempt in a borrowed car. None of us were comfortable with the challenge. It was a 4WD track best left to local professionals.
We headed along the Arabian shore, stopping for a stroll on Mughsail beach and then on for some coastal sightseeing at Marneef caves & blow holes. I went more for the blow holes and less for the caves, though there really were no caves.
No caves that I saw anyway. Thank goodness…
And no blow holes.
Oh well.
The sea’s colour was almost unreal to see… ripples of shimmering turquoise crystal and aqua gems. The beaches were completely deserted and almost everywhere we went, we had them all to ourselves. I think the Omanis avoid the heat and only frequent the shores in the evening.
Then Denise announced we would be heading up the “fun road.”
Oooohhh… the fun road sounded rather intriguing.
And fun.
It was actually called As Sultan Qaboos street and it climbed us up into the dramatic cliffs of the Qara Mountains. There were a lot of sharp curves and inclines, but each corner showcased another breathtaking view.
Denise was determined to take us to another beach, convinced there was one worth exploring on the other side of the mountain range. We didn’t mind the drive… after all, we had the entire day… and the scenery was far from boring.
We were exploring.
We were on an adventure.
It was all fun fun fun on the fun road… until wham… we hit a military checkpoint at the top of the hill.
Shit.
What the…?
Camouflage jeeps draped in netting, equipped with machine guns on the roof, stood on guard. Barricades were staggered in the street to force vehicles to slow down. A number of armed military personnel patrolled the scene, stopping vehicles as they passed through… and that included us.
Denise cried out, “Shit! We’re at the Yemen border!”
Uh-oh…
We turned around immediately. There was no messing around with the Yemen-Oman border.
The fun road wasn’t fun anymore. Yemen was a serious no no. We had to get away.
We weren’t two minutes down the mountainous road when suddenly everyone decided that it wasn’t actually the Yemen border, only a mere military stop. Yemen was still over an hour away, and they were all convinced that the military checkpoint would be perfectly fine to pass through. Much to my dismay, Denise turned the vehicle around and back we went.
After all, we were just going to the beach. Right?
Wrong.
A military checkpoint near the Yemen border? Hmmm… I wonder why they’d strategically place it there? Perhaps smuggling, illegal crossings... military operations?
Yemen.
No biggie… just a handful of ongoing conflict and instability. Civil war, Al-Qaeda and ISIS terrorism, humanitarian crises, and the kidnapping & targeting of foreigners… just all the fun fun fun and chaos that make unstable border areas even more stressful and dangerous.
And fun.
On the fun road.
I couldn’t believe it.
Shit.
Double shit when camouflaged officers with big guns and cranky expressions stopped us at the barricades and demanded to see our passports.
I didn’t like it one bit. My gut screamed for us to turn around, but here we were… silly tourists in a borrowed car, inching toward the Yemen border, looking for a fun beach.
Denise didn’t have her passport on her, so the officer took her license instead. He stood inches from the window and slowly leafed through every single page of each of our passports. I could feel the sweat trickling down my back.
“Please, can we just turn around?” I begged, but everyone else brushed it off.
They were far too relaxed in this situation for my liking… cracking jokes and telling me to calm down. This wasn’t a laughing matter. Machine guns were involved, we were uncomfortably close to Yemen, and now they had our passports.
Everyone kept saying, “We’re going to the beach,” but PEOPLE… we were on the TOP of a mountain range! We couldn’t be further from the beach.
Our explanation was ridiculous.
Our program was weak.
Then the officer motioned for us to pull over. Great. My stomach sank as he walked off toward their office… with our passports.
Where was he going? What was he doing with them?
Panic.
Nightmare.
What if he stamped us out of Oman?
Desperate, I made one last plea out the window before he disappeared.
“Please, sir! We want to turn around. We don’t want to go further down this road.”
That’s when it happened, the officer smiled. The tension broke for just a moment, and without hesitation, he handed back our passports.
The relief was like a weight off my shoulders.
OMG.
Never again.
That was not cool.
With that stressful ordeal behind us, we headed back down the mountain, putting as much distance as possible between ourselves and the Yemen border… and the military checkpoint.
There were other beaches.
It didn’t take long before Mickey spotted a small road snaking its way down the sheer cliffs toward the shore. At least… we hoped it led there. The road was alarmingly steep… with loose gravel and sheer drop-offs. I felt like every move we made that day had certain elements of thrilling fear and impending doom.
The valley below was a striking landscape of jagged cliffs and demonic rock projections that looked eerily like melting skulls. This geological masterpiece had a haunting and mesmerizing beauty to it… unlike anything I’d ever seen.
Since leaving the military checkpoint, one car had been tailing us closely. When we turned off the main highway onto danger cliff alley, he followed.
Denise, ever gracious, pulled as far to the side as possible to let him pass. He did… but just 50 feet later, screeched to a halt.
The passenger jumped out.
We watched as he turned to face us, marched to the back of his car and picked up an enormous rock.
Okay… this was it.
This was the moment he was going to hurl the boulder through our windshield, rob us, and leave us for dead on the cliffside. We’d pushed our luck too far near the Yemen border… and now we had to die. There was no escape.
But then…?
He turned away from us and hurled the rock to the side of the road.
WTF??
He was attacking a snake who was attacking a poor lizard. Instead of killing us, he was trying to save the lizard!
How sweet!
I felt horrible for assuming the worst. The Omani people are some of the kindest, most generous souls you’ll ever meet. Here I was, thinking they’d murder us on a mountainside for closing in on the Yemen border.
For the record, the lizard didn’t make it. Poor little guy.
The beaches below were more than worth the distress, the terror and chaos we had to endure to finally arrive. Once again, we had almost the entire coastline to ourselves, and its beauty was overwhelming.
Not only were we far from the crowds… and our tour crew… but we’d stumbled into a slice of paradise I never expected to find in Oman.
Who knew this country could be so fantastic?
And the camels—there were camels everywhere. Dozens of them, lazily roaming the beach like they owned the place. One particularly curious beast wandered right up to the car window, peering in to say hello.
I froze for a second, hesitant about what to do. I was caught in that awkward moment of not being able to choose between rolling up the window immediately or photographing this beautiful beast directly in front of me. I should know better though…
Camels have sharp teeth and are known to bite. They also have a charming habit of regurgitating stomach contents onto unsuspecting bystanders, such as myself.
Luckily, I avoided a faceful of camel cud.
So yeah… it was a good day.
Machine guns, military checkpoints, sheer cliff drop-offs, demonic rock formations, lizard-killing snakes, vomiting camels, Yemen border patrol, 4WD roads, and a borrowed car on some very questionable terrain… all for the adventure.
Just a bunch of silly tourists living on the edge… looking for the damn beach.
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