I had been dreading spending two nights in Muscat with Denise, but as luck would have it, she’d reverted to being fun and engaging again… back to normal. That being said, my perception of “normal” was based on how she had been during those first couple of weeks.
Her disposition seemed rather hit and miss now.
We arrived at Muscat… a city on the Gulf of Oman and get this… it stretches out 190km end to end. Not a walking city at all. Very much a taxi city.
We’d read that hotel taxis were the colour blue and charged double (sometimes triple) for tourist rides. The guidebook recommendation was to get as far away from any hotel and then hail the orange-coloured taxis. Easier said than done, as you were required to download an app that refused to send out the code required to access the site. Some of the group managed to get it on their phones, and the rest of us had to rely on them for transportation. I was not one of the lucky ones. The app kept telling me it was sending a code, but no matter how many times I tried, it never appeared.
On the first evening, Judy, Denise and I headed to the old souq. We got there just before it opened, so we had time to kill with a horrendous bit of a deep fried dinner.
The souq was no different from the usual markets encountered, with vendors harassing us with the same questions and one-liners, persistently trying to lure us into their stalls.
From there, we headed to a hotel with an Irish pub. As I’ve mentioned before, buying alcohol at a liquor store requires proof that you’re non-Muslim, along with a special government-issued license. You can purchase duty-free alcohol, but only when flying in. For most tourists, the only way to enjoy a glass of wine or a beer is by visiting the bars in tourist hotels.
The Irish pub seemed like our best option, and Denise was certain the vibe would be brilliant.
It wasn’t.
We were the only ones there.
Despite the empty room, the music was absurdly loud, making it impossible to even try to hold a conversation. I had to be ‘that person’ and beg the bartender to turn down the volume so Judy and I could talk. Denise had slipped outside to chain-smoke and chat on the phone with friends.
Once the liquor menu hit my grubby little fingers, I knew we’d made a mistake in coming here.
One bottle of crap house white was over $100. A glass of white was around $24 - and that was only a 6oz. I resigned myself to not having anything at all. I couldn’t afford it. We all know that one glass (or bottle) leads to another… and I could hardly afford another… or another after that. Beer was on a ‘buy 2, get 1 free’ happy hour special, but those of us that were more inclined towards wine were not as lucky.
No happy hour for us.
Poor winos…
Finally I relented and agreed to have one glass.
One glass only.
Isn’t it ironic that the word ‘muscat’ refers to a grape variety and the wine made from it… yet we’re in a dry country where wine is scarce… and Muscat wine even scarcer… and wine prices are simply outrageous?
I intend to file a complaint.
That’s when we met Laurie, from Finland. He was the only other person in the pub and naturally, he gravitated toward our table. Judy and I invited him to join us.
Out of habit… and a bit of serious stupidity… I extended my right hand to introduce myself.
Big mistake.
He took my hand in a grip so intense it felt like he was trying to crush it completely. Then, with the enthusiasm of a bartender shaking up a cocktail, he cranked my hand & arm (and fully bandaged wrist) up and down and up and down and up and down…
I screamed it pain…
But it was too late. The damage was done… or re-done… or un-done. All the healing progress I’d made over the past couple of days vanished… and replaced by a fresh wave of agony.
FML.
Despite Laurie’s bone-crushing handshake, he turned out to be quite a lovely man. There wasn’t any iota of a vibe at the Irish pub, and when we left, we took the entire customer base with us… Laurie. He ended up tagging along with us back to our hotel… and then buying me a bottle of rosé to ease the pain of my ruptured right appendage. We figured if we were going to pay outrageous prices for drinks, we might as well do it in the comfort of familiar surroundings.
We found a few more of our crew hanging out in the lobby bar. The night took a wild turn for some, but I decided to head to bed early. The prices were bleeding me dry. They really do have us by the balls in places like this.
The next day, Denise stayed in bed nursing an all day hangover, while I ventured out to explore a bit of our surroundings. There wasn’t much in the vicinity. I stumbled upon the strangest mall I’ve ever seen. It felt like wandering through a scene from an apocalyptic horror movie. There were no “normal” stores in sight… no recognizable brands, no knock-offs, not even the usuals like cafés, pharmacies or clothing shops. It was a mishmash of creepy vendors selling things like belts, dates and wigs. Half the mall was eerily empty, like it was under demolition… and the occupied spaces were just… weird.
That evening, there had been some discussion about a few of us doing a boat trip. Denise had planned it all, but then due to her alcohol poisoning, had backed out. To be fair, I wanted to back out too… but not for the same reasons. I’d been under the impression that it was a sightseeing dhow along the coast… but apparently she’d signed us up for a speedboat dolphin viewing tour.
No.
No.
No.
I had no interest in jetting around the coast chasing dolphins. My hands were tied though, as Judy and Brian were still interested. $57 for a stupid dolphin tour? I was seething….
But I went.
The taxi ride turned out to be unexpectedly amusing. I had entered the wrong location, so the driver had to pull over to recalculate the distance and adjust the fare. It was 3:26, and we needed to be there by 3:45 for a 4PM departure. Despite trying to explain our urgency, the driver seemed more interested in chatting with us about the length of the drive… on the side of the road… rather than hitting the gas and getting us there on time.
The absurdity of it all… combined with the stress over the taxi, the speedboat, the dolphins and the $57… completely broke my crappy mood. Before we knew it, we were all muffling our laughter, and begging him to, “Just drive!”
During the drive, he even wanted to pull off the highest and quickly show us a restaurant.
Noooo….
He had predicted that the trip would take 40 minutes, but thankfully, we made it in about 20-25. Somehow, we arrived just in time to jump on the boat… or the dhow.
To my surprise… and relief… it wasn’t a speedboat at all. Apparently, there wasn’t enough interest in the speedboat, so without even consulting us about the change, we were instructed to board the dhow. I was thrilled. It felt like a more authentic and traditional way to enjoy the coastal experience.
The trip was… meh, at best… full, but not overcrowded. The coast at sunset was beautiful and the captain occasionally came out to point out landmarks along the way. There was not one single dolphin to be seen… but they did serve us dates, water, candy and nuts… so that made up for the absence of aquatic mammals.
One particular passenger, an Asian girl, spent the first half of the trip obsessively taking selfies and forcing her boyfriend to snap endless photos of her. By the second half, though, she was leaning over the railing, seasick and vomiting.
I stayed seated for most of the trip, hesitant to move too much. With my right hand/arm/wrist out of commission, I didn’t trust my ability to steady myself if I lost balance.
And it was a pretty rocky ride.
So… when we’d originally been dropped off at the dock, our taxi had been quite adamant about being the one to pick us up.
Ok.
We took all his details and promised we’d call. It was a strange request, considering how far we were from where he had likely returned after dropping us off. I was sceptical he’d be in the vicinity when we actually needed him.
When the dhow docked, we made the effort to call him.
He promised he’d be there in ten minutes.
Ten minutes turned into twenty… and then thirty.
A few concerned people, including staff from the dhow, stopped to check that we were ok. We assured them all that our ride was ‘on his way,’ even though we were beginning to doubt it. When thirty minutes was becoming forty, Judy called him again. He insisted he was on his way and “just a minute away.”
Spoiler alert.
He was not a minute away.
Then, a kind stranger approached us. He asked where we were headed and offered to drive us… for free. He didn’t want any money, only the chance to practice his English.
Deal.
Judy, trying to be polite, called the original taxi driver to let him know we’d found another ride. He wasn’t happy. In fact, he got angry and refused to let her off the phone, insisting he was moments away, but we’d had enough.
We had waited an hour.
Our new ride, an Omani sports writer with a lovely big, comfortable cruiser, turned out to be fabulous. He was a sports columnist and traveled the world covering football matches. The ride back was far more enjoyable than we’d expected, though he was slightly over zealous about ensuring we were comfortable and were going to find a good restaurant to eat at.
His favourite player was Messi.
Cool.
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