Marilyn was wearing a ‘Choose Love’ shirt today. I mistakenly read it as, ‘Choose Life,’ and my mind automatically went to Wham!
Wham! … George Michael & Andrew Ridgeley - British pop duo from the 80’s. We ALL know Wham!
Now… get this…
Right after I said it, Geisha announced, quite pretentiously, that he’d never heard of Wham!
You’re kidding me?
So… I elaborated.
“George Micheal?”
Nope.
“Wake Me Up Before You Go Go?”
Nope.
“Careless Whisper?”
Nope.
AS IF…
Sounds like someone’s doing his best to stay in the closet. As if someone who wears his shirt that tight over his rollie polies, has never heard of Wham! You can’t convince me you don’t know who George Michael is if you stand like a teapot.
Then Stormin’ Norm… who is equally as highfaluting… (and I’ll do a proper introduction on him later)… piped in and vehemently declared “I’m proud to announce that I’ve lived my entire life and never heard of George Micheal either.”
Piss off.
The both of you…
Up until that precise moment, I’d thought only the Geisha was in the closet. Now I was confident they both are.
As we crossed from the United Arab Emirates into Oman, I resisted the urge to blast Faith or Last Christmas and instead opted to play the part of a composed and responsible traveler.
The hospitality at the UAE border lobby was exceptional. As we sat patiently, waiting for our turn to receive our departure stamps, one of the customs officials circled the room, offering us small cups of coffee. Such courtesy is rare to encounter at most border crossings, if not ALL border crossings.
Entering into Oman was a pretty lengthy, but simple process. Each one of us hand our passports and printed Oman visas in hand, but the immigration officer hardly paid them much mind.
Marianne faced a far more rigorous process than the rest of us. Martin was away with her for quite some time, doing paperwork, extensive security checks and X-ray screenings. Once we were finally allowed to reboard, officers returned to inspect our passport stamps and conduct random searches of a few bags.
But we made it…
Oman!
Another stamp in my passport.
Oman was one of the countries that was in talks to join the UAE in 1972. But they backed out due to historical, political and cultural factors.
Interesting facts about Oman;
~ Oman is one of the oldest independent states in the Arab world. Its history as a trading hub dates back over 5,000 years, with links to ancient Mesopotamia, Persia and India.
~ It’s the Frankincense capital of the world.
~ It has no skyscrapers.
~ Oman is a sultanate, and its rulers are known for promoting modernization while preserving traditions.
~ No taxes for individuals.
Our first stop was…
Wait for it…
Wait for it…
The mall!
Why not? I feel like we’re on a mall roll now. Let’s hit ALL the malls.
In most of the malls we’d already frequented, most of us had fallen prey to the convenience of the crappy food courts. Myself included. Recently, I’d heard whispers about how good the deli was in the Lu Lu supermarket. Lu Lu is one of the big supermarket brands in the Middle East.
So instead of throwing my money away on crappy deep fried drivel and brown-snot, blueberry concoctions, I figured I’d give Lu Lu’s a shot.
They were right.
I’ve visited my fair share of supermarkets, but this one was in a league of its own. The deli at the back had an unparalleled selection of cheeses, olives, dips, salads… and more. A feast of flavours. It was a buffet of delights, a cornucopia of culinary treasures, a true smorgasbord of indulgence.
I wanted it all.
My eyes were bigger than my stomach, and completely disregarding the rule of “no food in the truck fridge,” I ended up buying a large container of spicy feta salad and an equally large container of spicy soft cheese.
I was going to get bunged right up.
Now in Oman, and out of the USA, I managed to connect to WIFI and I purchased an eSIM while at the mall, but ignorantly forgot to activate it.
I’m not always the smartest…
On the way to our ‘bush’ camp, we stopped at Sulaif Castle, in Ibri. It was locked up when we arrived and we had to wait for a dirty little man on a bicycle to come open up the main gate for us. One in, we had the entire fort to ourselves to explore… kinda.
Everyone else had free reign. I didn’t.
There was another man who appeared, who smoked like a chimney… and tried to lead us around the castle. While his intentions seemed genuine, his English was very non-existent… and his efforts quickly became exasperating.
He was extremely pushy. Every two or three feet of his tiresome tour, he was insistent on taking our picture, to the point where he would just take our camera and continue on without us, snapping photos.
“Stop!”
“Photo here good.”
“Photo here.”
“Camera please give me.”
It was infuriating… and it didn’t stop. No matter how many times we declined his photography services, brushed him off or refused to give hand over our cameras, he was still so pushy.
“Photo here.”
“Camera please give me.”
Everyone was far more clever & sneaky than myself… disappearing one by one, until the only one left… was me.
“Stop!”
“Photo here good.”
“Photo here.”
“Camera please give me.”
The most frustrating part was that the photos he took were terrible. If I felt any obligation to tip him, I at least wanted a decent picture in return.
All of them - deleted.
I even set up some timed selfies, by myself, as opposed to handing him my camera, to try and give him the hint. Nothing worked. He would not be deterred.
The castle was cool… built entirely of mud bricks, stone and palm trees… but probably would’ve been leaps & bounds better had he left me alone.
I didn’t even have any Oman currency to tip him so unfortunately, he had hitched his wagon to the wrong star.
Now… I don’t like to complain about camping toooooo much…
*yes… I do know that’s a blatant lie.
…but this next stop pushed me beyond my ‘canvas, pegs and roll up mattress’ boundaries.
You’re kidding me…
Surely this was a sad joke.
It was ROCKS.
All rocks.
Big rocks.
Little rocks.
Rocks as far as I could see.
Why they call it bush camping, when it is quite clearly rockcamping, is beyond me.
I was a Flinstone.
I had to inquire as to whether or not there happened to be a spare roll mat, as my cheap blowie would surely pop in these conditions.
My poor back.
My poor knees.
So… what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger?? I was positive this would be the death of me. There was no coming out of this ‘stronger.’
The BIG question… Why I didn’t invest in a high-quality, thicker sleeping cot to improve this already ominous experience, is beyond me.
But… I did it. I somehow managed to set up my tent in this barren and bouldered bedrock city.
Oooohhh… I so love camping.
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