As we approach the year mark of living in Oman, I’m stunned by how much time has passed, and how quickly this place has become “normal,” even routine. My initial fears of driving and getting lost (and never seeing my children again), are silly to me now. The sights and sounds—the constant battering of construction next door, the calls to prayer five times a day—have, for the most part, faded into the background of life.
But if you ask me, ‘Are you used to living in the Middle East?’ I’d answer ‘No, not really.’ There is still too much I can’t wrap my head around. Starting with where I live, on the northern shore of Oman in Muscat. It’s difficult to fathom that when I look out over the serene ocean, just across the cerulean blue waters, lies the country of Iran—one of a handful of countries without any formal U.S. diplomatic relations, and a notorious member of Trump’s travel ban. And if I wanted to, though I wouldn’t, I could drive to Iraq; it would be like driving from California to Utah, only different, of course. Yemen is closer still. Our neighbor. One border away. And yet, I can’t travel there either. For all intents and purposes I’m geo-politically land locked. It’s a form of isolation that’s hard to explain.
Lots of things are hard to explain, actually. Coming from a Western democracy, it’s hard to grasp a culture where religion and government are one and the same, where education is as much the responsibility of the minister of education, as it is the minister of religion, where social norms—everything from what you wear to how you eat—is dictated by your faith. It’s hard to comprehend even when it’s in front of your face.
We’re now in the holy month of Ramadan. I had no appreciation for what that meant, until I discovered that for 30 days, ALL restaurants, ALL cafés, ALL small road side swarma shops (that you wouldn’t even want to eat at) are closed until 7 pm. Starbucks is closed. McDonald’s is closed. My favorite smoothie shop, yes, closed. There’s nowhere to go if you want a quick lunch with friends or didn’t pack your lunch at work or if it’s the last day of school and you want to get ice cream to celebrate…you’ll have to wait until ‘Iftar Time,’ 7 pm. That’s when everyone prays (for the 4th time) and breaks their fast. It stands to reason, that with eating establishments closed, lots of shops are closed too. Not a lot of people are out and about when the entire country is fasting.
On the other hand, my husband comes home more for lunch, and the kids, having nowhere else to go, appreciate my increased efforts to create ‘restaurant worthy’ meals for the table. It’s taken my kitchen creativity to a whole new level, and in a small way, allowed us to see what life was like, before all of these alternatives to the family kitchen existed. I can see too, that this ritual brings comfort to the devout and faith to those who fast with real intent, honoring the meaning of Iftar, by sharing food with the poor and making each evening a special time for family and reflection.
But if you’d have told me that a government could dictate eating hours, or a man caught eating, a Muslim man, could be taken from his place of employment and put in prison for the night, I would not have believed you. I would not have thought fasting could go that far. But it happened, to an employee of a friend of ours, and though they are from the Middle East, they were shocked too.
I had to go to the grocery store, inside the mall, and pick up a few items this week. Micah came with me, the-ever-helpful-out-of-school-Senior-with-nothing-to-do (those were the days). As we passed from 111-degree heat outside, into the merciful cool air of the mall, a guard approached us with a grim face. He told us we needed to leave because my son was wearing shorts. Let me be clear, these were long shorts, half-way down his knee shorts, and he had on a nice t-shirt too. We were told that during Ramadan, women should have their arms and legs covered, but this was new information. I could only assume the guard was ‘hangry’ and overly cautious, so I thanked him and kindly explained we were on our way to H&M to buy the kid pants…he let us pass.
There are things I see and experience that are hard for me to understand, or put into context. Telling someone to leave the mall because they’re wearing shorts is one of them and grocery shopping is another. It’s not just that foods are different and sometimes I have to shop in two or three places to find the ingredients I need. That happens everywhere. It’s that the food comes from countries where, given the chance, I wouldn’t even be allowed to travel.
On my most recent grocery trip, I bought Mangos from Yemen, the poorest country in the Arab world. Every 10 minutes a child under five dies there from preventable causes, largely due to malnutrition! It’s a staggering statistic and equally as hard to come to grips with, is that 3.3 million Yemenis have fled their country, and of those who remain, more than half don’t have enough food and more than two-thirds don’t have access to safe drinking water. And I’m buying their mangoes. It feels wrong, but the sad truth is, they need to sell their produce so they can pay for other goods and services, so in a small way, I’m actually helping. I can’t wrap my brain around it.
So, to get back to my question, no, I’m not really used to living in the Middle East. I’m experiencing life here, day to day, but I’m in a constant state of mentally processing. Luckily, experience is a patient teacher, and at some point, I may be able to say, I understand how life in the Middle East works. But for now, I don’t. And I am sure, if this were all turned around, someone from the Middle East living the U.S. could find reasons to wonder about our own cultural conundrums.
Ultimately, whatever our cultural encounters may be, our experiences come down to this: how people treat you. And I can say, for the most part, I encounter kindness, generosity and welcome wherever I go. And that’s a good feeling. It’s not uncommon to be greeted publically, by a stranger, as ‘Sister.’ The title implies our connectedness, and no matter our differences, I believe at our core, we’re more the same than we realize. Here in Oman, I’ve met devout Muslims who inspired me with their consideration, hospitality, and family values. They often make me want to be a better Christian.
Recently, I was exiting my car to go to the kid’s school. I was carrying a heavy load and struggling to shut my car door, let alone hold everything. A woman saw me and came to my rescue. In the course of our walk up to school, she introduced herself, told me she was from Libya and confessed that she worried for her country and worried about going home and worried how they would survive. It was a reminder that though we may be different, we all worry about the same things—our children, the future, our safety. Given the recent attacks in London, it would be easy for ‘us’ to perceive ‘them,’ all Muslims, as the same. But that just isn’t true. And this caring stranger in a head scarf, is just one example of Muslims I know with beautiful hearts. She made me think of something Henry David Thoreau once said, “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”
What do we see?
The world is complicated and there’s so much to ‘see.’ Maybe if we keep our eyes open wide, we can acknowledge our differences, while still making room for one another. We don’t need to be the same to find respect. More than anything, I appreciate when a person sees me in Oman for who I am, and gives me the space to be the Westerner, I can’t help but be. Our differences aren’t the problem, it’s how we see them. So for now, I’ll keep trying to ‘see’ the world, to keep processing and understanding, that’s what I can do.
A friend of mine recently told me, her nephew was getting married. With emotion in her voice, she added, I haven’t been to any of my brothers or sisters weddings. And now… I’m missing this. She’s been living outside her home country, the Philippines, for the last seven years, working in Hong Kong, Saudi, and currently, Oman. I understood what she’s feeling—that heavy weight of not ‘being there’ for the moments that ‘count’—because I’ve felt that before. Her tale of missed celebrations and family gatherings, echoed my own memoir.
But to be honest, my perspectives on things that ‘count’ and ‘matter most,’ have changed, dramatically, over the years. And I think it’s worth asking, What are the BIG things in life? And if the big things are BIG, then what are the small?
When you talk to cancer survivors, like my remarkable mother, they can tell you that just waking up in the morning is cause for celebration. For them, eating a piece of buttered toast (and keeping it down), can be more thrilling than any cake they’ve ever tasted. They don’t even need a new outfit to be happy. Just a knit cap will do, and some cozy pajamas.
It’s all about perspective.
When my husband began working for the State Department, I silently kept track of the activities and events he missed when he traveled, counting them as the BIG things. But as the years rolled on and we moved and moved and moved again and there were stretches of months, that added up to years, when he would be unable to come home for holidays, birthdays, anniversaries and family gatherings, I began to forget about the ‘important dates’ and see that any date I was with him mattered.
When he could do the bedtime routine or run the kids to school, that was reason enough to throw a party. And believe me, he did! (My husband is fun like that—way funner than me.) But when milestones were missed and dad couldn’t be there, my kids didn’t fall apart or claim life wasn’t fair (they saved that line for other arguments), because they’d learned early on:
We don’t wait to celebrate the days that ‘count,’ but count the reasons to celebrate each day.
My mother-in-law has this thing she does, for birthdays. Okay, let’s just say, she’s not the greatest at remembering when her children, or grandchildren, were born. So when we do manage to gather at Grandma and Grandpa’s ranch, she goes around the table, handing out twenty-dollar bills, excitedly exclaiming “Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday!” From the youngest to the oldest, whether you just had a birthday, or won’t blow out your cake candles for another six months, at that moment, you are celebrated. It doesn’t matter if it’s a Tuesday or if it’s July and raining, she’s got her fanny pack open, and she’d doling out the cash. No one is about to say, But it’s not my birthday.
This kind of exuberance for life, the joy and wonder for everyday living, is contagious. And why not? If you only see people once a year, twice if you’re lucky, then don’t waste time, pop up the tent and bring in the dancing ponies!!
But… what about people who see their family all the time (maybe even a little too much time)? What does this narrative hold for you? I reckon you run the risk of having all the BIG things, along with all the little things, so it can get overwhelming. Feel free to take it down a notch. Just because you can do it, doesn’t mean you should. You know what I mean?
Living abroad, we don’t celebrate holidays in the traditional sense. Every country is different and we’ve had to adapt. There’s no Valentine’s in Oman or trick or treating. And Easter is on a Sunday—a work day here in the Middle East, (Friday is the holy day)—so that feels different too. In Sweden, our kids had school on Thanksgiving, but Cooper had the U.S. government holiday off. So for three years running, we dined out for lunch, on Thanksgiving, at our favorite restaurant, sans kids, and cooked the turkey and trimmings on the weekend.
Yes, I miss being in the U.S. for holidays, walking into Target and coming home with all kinds of fru-fru. But on the other hand, I’ve been liberated from the near impossible expectations of the ‘crop-and-cut’ digital culture. When you can make everything look more perfect than it actually is, that’s pressure.
Back in my day, we had rolls of film, and they were limited to 12, 24, or a whopping 36 exposures (for you youngin’s out there, that means photos you can take). There were no delete-oops-do-overs. That family photo where you blinked and the other person didn’t smile… that was the good shot. Nowadays, we gaze into the photo shopped world of friends and neighbors and risk feeling that our lives ain’t-quite-up-to-snuff. The quickest way to make the BIG moments feel small, is to over inflate your expectations and start comparing. They ‘NAILED IT,’ and you only sort of, kind of, not really, ‘nailed it.’ Ouch.
For Easter this year, my teenage boys got one sandwich-sized ziplock of the odds and ends of candy I could rummage from around the house—the stuff they hadn’t eaten yet. Oh yes. I hid their bags behind the X-box and made them play ‘hot and cold’ for 10 minutes. (I had to get some fun out of it.)
For my daughter, who still wants me to tuck her in every night and kisses my cheek before she leaves for school, I went to the extra effort of dumping some of her toys out of an old crocheted rag basket she uses, and filled it with three Junie B. Jones books and a zip-lock candy bag of her very own. We also played hot and cold. It was a humble and simple Easter, and just as delightful as anything I can recall, because I wasn’t exhausted afterward and still had energy to actually sit down and read books with my daughter.
Not surprisingly, my husband was out-of-town and missed the whole thing. But it’s okay, because when he gets home we still have plenty of other reasons to celebrate. Like eating dinner together, going for our beach walk, or watching him try to match socks from the laundry—I promise, it’s entertainment.
Transforming the little moments into the BIG moments gives you a reason to put the sparkling grape juice on the table, pull out the good paper napkins and order pizza on a Wednesday. We don’t have to do, like we’ve always done. We don’t even have to do things like our neighbor, or everyone else on Facebook. We can just ‘count’ today as lucky because we think it is, and that’s really all that ‘matters.’
We arrived home from Thailand with time for me to unpack, start a load of wash and immerse myself in a much needed bath while listening to the evening ‘Call to Prayer.’ My eyes closed, the words from Mosque floated somewhere in my mind, a rhythmic chanting, indecipherable. I offered up my own prayer to God, one of surrender and thanks…for the journey of the past nine days, for people both wondrous and diverse, for a life that feels heavy at times and buoyant at others, for every time good outweighs evil and we can breath a little more deeply.
It was in Thailand, looking out over the Indian Ocean when I read about the terrorist act in Sweden. An ocean of calm in front of me, while miles away the tragedy played out, shattering lives and peace and the unspoken trust that we are humans first. It was strange to see my surroundings and think of places and people suffering. After that, I couldn’t look at Thailand in the same way—I didn’t.
Somehow everything became a metaphor—the overgrowth and the undergrowth of vegetation for example, how it took over trees, strangling whatever it could cling too. The jungle is a place based on survival, nature at its most elemental—unforgiving and risky. And at that moment, the world felt very much the same. It felt like we were all in a savage jungle, dangers lurking in beautiful corners—New York, London, Berlin, Brussels, Paris and more and now Stockholm, witnesses to the destruction of the very thing—humanity—that religion tries to sanctify.
The next morning, on our way to breakfast, we happened upon an injured butterfly. It’s blue wings were wet and muddy. It seemed like a sign. We lifted it gently, laying it to rest on a lovely patch of green, out of the way of stomping feet. With hope still fluttering in its wings, the message was this: Yes, we get damaged, but we survive.
Later in the week, on one of our boat excursions, we came to a city on the water, Koh Panyee, nicknamed the “Floating Village.” The name rightly conjures images of hope and survival. The village, built entirely on stilts in the ocean, began in the early 18th century, when two Malay families were denied entry onto Thailand’s Mainland because they were Muslim. Being fishermen by trade, they set up homes over the water, and continued their work, growing in number, until they’d constructed an entire city, with a school, a Mosque, and shops and now restaurants tourists flock to.
Years ago, when the children of Panyee watched The World Cup and wanted to play soccer, the families of this village built a floating soccer pitch. The boys played without shoes, jumping into the ocean to retrieve their ball when kicked out-of-bounds. They became so good at soccer, that they started competing with teams on the Mainland. For the last seven years, the Panyee team has won the Thai Soccer Championship! There’s a plaque that will tell you their story near the soccer pitch.
Their homes, the planks of wood we stood on, walking over the ocean, were constructed from hard work, dreams, and the instincts to survive. A life on the water; the Panyee carved out an existence in their “jungle.” A place where tourists now find inspiration and beauty. Another testament that we are born from what is difficult, raised again to something unexpected and wonderous. Panyee was my answer to the question I’d been holding: Can we dare to have hope in this crazy broken world of ours? Panyee answered yes.
On our last day in Phuket, Cooper and I walked into town in search of a few souvenirs and the bottles of aloe vera they sell everywhere for tourist’s sunburns. Along the way we happened into a shop with carved elephants, real pearls and Thai silk scarves–lovely. We were “only looking,” when we met a British woman and her Iranian husband, seated in the furtive but casual act of purchasing a rug from a gentlemen from Kashmiri. It was for their new apartment just down the street. A place where they could escape the dreary winter of London and come more often once they were retired. As things go, we lingered for over an hour, talking everything from Syria to Trump, Rumi the poet to Persian culture, food and politics and how history in the end, still repeats itself. When the travel ban to America came up—the Brit, the Iranian, the Kashmiri—all were quick to say how much they loved the American people and the country; it was our governments to blame for the trouble between us.
By the end we’d promised, should we ever come back, to join them for dinner. It was one of those chance, but not chance, encounters. A meeting that bequeaths you a gift, a lens for seeing, not a mechanical lens, but rather the eyes to peer into the beautiful depths of another human’s soul. A reminder of the loveliness of humanity, the kindness, the hospitality that we share just by smiling into one another faces.
These are the moments that restore our faith that the world hasn’t all gone stark raving mad. There are still people who hold to the invisible thread of humanity, the one that continues to weave this intricate work we call life—String Theory for humans. We’re tethered to this ever evolving design and if we could step back, far, far away, we could see we are part of a pattern—each of us.
The pattern is all around us, it’s God’s hands in everything, and everywhere. He is not the tragedy unfolding, but the thread of many hands joined together to weave and heal and bind up what is broken. Thailand holds the memory of this lesson, along with so much untamed beauty it is hard not to wish to return. There are places on earth where it is easy to see God, where the very wind seems to whisper his name. It’s important to have our God places, to have our good memories, to keep a spot of refuge for when life feels risky and rejection comes calling. It’s good to also remember, hope is already in our hands. We’re holding onto it, just by being human, by agreeing to be here in this together.
In Thailand, it is customary when you say thank you or good-bye, to press the palms of your hands together, just below your chin, hovering over your heart while giving a slight bow. It’s a gesture that slows the pace of life to the calming speed of love and gratitude. It’s a state of mind and heart that translates in any language. It’s what we can do, not outwardly, but inwardly, toward one another to bring our hearts a little closer, our hands holding the thread a little stronger. In the words of Dalai Lama, “Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. Without them, humanity cannot survive.” Thailand was my lesson that with each small gesture, each chance encounter, each tragedy we face, we can find something greater—our human connection and the faith to keep trusting in humanity.
On mornings when the shoreline retreats to the horizon, and a breeze blows, so you almost need a sweater, people of all cultures gather to the beach. Most mornings, but especially on these mornings, I walk. My usual attire: black leggings, pink t-shirt, neon yellow fanny pack and orange ball cap—I know, I’m not proud.
I move briskly. My arms and legs swinging, as I take the brick pathway, parallel to the sea. I listen to books on tape or TED talks or Imagine Dragons, but sometimes I take off my headphones and tune into the waves—the actual waves. I listen to birds talk. I “people watch,” (the way my mother-in-law likes to at airports).
You don’t need to be an expert in geography, or to have lived in Oman very long, to figure out each culture has a way of interacting with the landscape all its own. You only need to observe.
Where I begin my walk, there are Bangladesh men gathered, always, waiting for appointments at their nearby Embassy. They come for visas, passports and documents so they can work in Oman. They sit on the grass under the palm trees alone, or with a friend, or stand by the shore taking selfies. They are waiting for something or someone. They gaze at me curiously.
Overhead, I hear a mechanical sound and look up. A Flamingo colored crane swings gracefully— a metal ballerina— gliding through the sky. The men and cranes perform night and day, a non-stop encore we can hear from our bedroom window. Maddening at times, but rather magnificent to behold.
I resume my pace, passing palm trees. My body’s still waking up and wishing I’d rest in the shade. I keep going.
I see more Bangladesh men, these in blue jumpsuits. They are construction workers, eating their breakfast after a night’s shift. They’re the lucky ones. The ones with jobs and money to send home and someone to call on their cellphone while they eat rice and chicken from stainless steel pails.
Further on, there are more Bangladesh mean wearing green jumpsuits. They pick up trash on the beach, water the flowers, sweep the pathways with dried palm fronds and mow the precious tracts of grass, prized by picnickers and soccer players alike. They look at my workout attire, pumping my arms, and offer mystified expressions.
Under the palms there are the Omani women, arranged in tight circles, seated cross-legged on woven mats, their shoulders touching. They come to the shore to eat together, engaging in the age-old practice of “visiting.” They sit. They pour one another coffee from carafes prepared earlier that day. Their expressions are enough to tell you, they are enjoying themselves, talking as only women can. Their circle, leaving no space, seems to signal their bond and that the quiet revelry is only for them.
There are groups of Indian families too. You hear them, before you see them. Their laughter is the kind made at the telling of hilarious jokes, only it doesn’t let up. Parents, siblings, children, aunties, all together. There’s no uniform assembly, they sit or stand casually, passing food and laughter all around.
Along my way, I see Omani men in white robes, Indian men wearing kurtas—long tunics—with loose fitting pants. Some walk with hands clasped behind their backs, others look like they have someplace to be. There are dog walkers and joggers and those who, like me, just want to exercise without inflicting too much pain.
Closer to the Hyatt, the midway point on the path, I notice more Europeans. Tourists (with a capital T). They’re easy to spot. Generally speaking, they show more skin. Wearing swim attire and bikinis, Speedos and shorts, many of them are retired and old. They seem neither to care or know they’re in the Middle East, they just need sun and need it desperately.
There is also a cafe. The tables face the sea and are occupied by people sipping coffee. To the rear of the building, where the path winds, a repulsive odor forces me to hold my breath. It is the stench of freon exhaust powering ancient air conditioners, mixed with carbon monoxide, burning roses and plastic, Shisha pipe smoke, sandalwood and sweat, (that’s my best description). I pull my collar over my nose and take shallow breaths, trying not to gag. After a few more steps I test the air with a sniff and I think I might faint. I bury my nose again, inside my shirt and start to jog, whatever it takes to escape. When I know I’m good and clear, I inhale again, deeply. This is the absolute worst part of my walk, though strangely, no one else seems to notice or think so.
Which gets me thinking, how differently I fit into the landscape, an American, picky about smells, rarely taking time to sit…texting more than talking. I have a schedule, that’s why I’m getting my exercise done early, that’s why I don’t haul mats and food to the beach and invite all my friends for breakfast, because I’m busy and that seems like a lot of work for a meal. I am the product of my Western upbringing. I do things. Staying busy makes me feel like I’m accomplishing something. Which isn’t true, of course, and every once in a while, it’s good to see people who really know how to relax.
I reach the British Embassy and turn around. I slow my pace, just a little, take a moment to observe the sea, the white crested waves that come one after another, after another. I try not to think of what needs done that day, but stay in that moment. It’s difficult. It’s like trying to read while the TV is blaring. It’s easier to just to close the book and watch TV. But I resist those thoughts and really focus on the waves, the sound, the feel of the air. As I do, two policemen on white steeds saunter past, chatting easily with each other, nothing to do but patrol the least crime ridden sector of the world. Ahhh…
I continue home, passing all the same groups and places, all the same smells. Only I spot “The Biker,” (that’s what I call him). I move to the side to avoid him veering around me. He’s a regular on the path, a man in his late 60’s with a shock of white curly hair that blows recklessly in the wind. He’s European or Australian or perhaps American, and he’s passed me a hundred times, but never looks my way.
I wonder to myself, am I ever like that biker? Do I look away? Do I roll on past and hope people will adjust to my way of doing things?
The greatest part of living abroad is the opportunity to see others, because in actuality, you learn about yourself. In the words of Rudolf Steiner, “To truly know the world, look deep within your own being. To truly know yourself, take a real interest in the world.” It’s true. And just as true are the words of Maya Angelou, “In diversity there is strength.”
I arrive back home refreshed, endorphins kicking in, the kind of happy to be alive feeling you get after a good workout. But it’s more than that, I’m grateful for Oman, for the landscape that is teaching me, to make room, to share, to see our differences as they really are—our strengths.
I paint, and then I step back to watch what the colors will do. It’s one of those mysteries of life, a realm science can’t explain, why colors make you feel the way they do, as they blend, harmonize and sometimes irritate. The creative process is unlike any other endeavor. It brings all of your senses into focus. When I paint, I am my eyes, my ears, my touch. I am all of my senses, nothing more.
In my studio, the 81×65 cm canvas looms large before me. I begin to think…maybe I should have chosen a smaller canvas, maybe I should have taken more time to sketch it out, maybe this isn’t the right subject to paint…fear is speaking.
I silence the resistance by enlisting trust. Every creative endeavor requires energy and trust, patience too and ambition. I keep on keeping on. Desire is 99%, it moves me forward. I am listening, not to fear, but to that part of myself that wants to create. I’m opening the door and bidding her to come forward, “Here, you’re invited, won’t you stay a while?”
It’s a mind game, it feels like a gamble, 50-50 it could all go to squat, and then what?
I don’t answer that question. I’m too busy trusting. My brush moves compulsively, dabbing at the colors on my palette, mixing, swiping vivid strokes on the canvas. I want to fill the white space, but more importantly, capture the essence of this tiny broken shell I found on the beach.
The day I collected it, put it in my pocket, brought it home, washed off the sand, I felt it spoke to me. Not in words (thank goodness), but the mere fact that it existed, survived, had been tossed by the waves, but had come to shore, parts broken, with what remained intact so lovely so achingly beautiful. A delicate purple swirl, surrounded by hues of pink, yellow and blue. The colors were luminescent, almost emerging while I gazed on the surface. I was enchanted.
Somewhat rash and unthinking, I began to paint this tiny shell, only to regret my impatience later when I had to rework several angles, change colors, enlarge some parts, reduce others, but still, the process of creation, of coaxing this shape into life, was exhilarating.
I worked for a couple of hours, time flew by. I didn’t stop for lunch. When I started to feel real frustration, I knew it was time to let the oils dry—stop muddying the color. I needed to focus my attention on something else, anything else. But before I did, I took a moment to stand back and assess what had been achieved. To my dismay, I found the simplicity of the shell—what had drawn me to it—had evaded me. I was doing too much. It was simple. Why was I complicating it?
I put away my palette, washed my brushes and lay them to dry. All the while my mind stayed on the painting, reworking it in my head, trying to sort out what needed to change. If only I could consult with another artist, they might give me some insight. But wait…that was possible…in a way. I could consult with artists via google–the wonder of this modern age. I opened my laptop and searched O’Keefe, which is to say, I summoned her genius, creativity, and spirit. She is a master of simplicity and color and many other things, and her work often guides my path. I found exactly what I needed, an image of a shell and hope. You got this, she seemed to say.
With a vision of what was possible, I returned to the now dry canvas several days later. It was time to simplify, lay shadows, bring out highlights and come to some final conclusions as to the background color. There were decisions to be made and it took a few painting sessions before I made them all and completed the work. It was during this phase of the process, that I begin to understand something deeper….why I was so drawn to the shell to begin with, why I HAD to paint it.
A shell, after all, is a home, an abode for some small sea creature to temporarily set up shop; it’s a living quarter, built and used, then passed on when it’s time to grow bigger. Was not my own quest similar…to find a “home,” to understand this place so unlike anywhere else I’ve ever lived in the world?
I’ve been in Muscat for 7 months now, time enough to unpack and settled, but still, there’s a lingering sense I am not quite home. The “shell” or rather “home,” I’ve physically moved into, is still unfamiliar to my way of life and experience. My physical landscape is a bit unwieldy—6 bedrooms, 6 bathrooms, 4 living rooms and a gigantic rotunda situated in the center of it all—much like the round swirl of the shell, the starting point of the shape. Is it coincidence that this small found object that crossed my path, physically defines my space, even my brokenness?
I look at the shell, then at my painting. I ponder this revelation. The shell is an outer presentation while the organism that lives inside, stays relatively hidden. How much of me is still hidden living here in Oman? How much of others do I really see? The shell protects as it projects an outward appearance. I am living in a culture where women are covered from head to toe in black abayas and head scarfs. I cannot see the inner identity of a woman, but I know that within each similarly robe clad female, there is someone unique. I try to remember that my own appearance is also apt to throw people off. They might see me as a “Westerner,” when really, I am ME. I am my own version of myself and no one can define that by my outward appearance—my jeans, my age, my short hair, my weight, my skin color.
We are, in essence, a collection of beautiful shells, vibrant entities, not understood, unless we take the time to look deeper. Is that why O’Keefe painted shells? Is that somehow connected to the need I feel to collect shells and put them around my house and paint them too, on occasion?
I’m expert at over analyzing, but I really think I’m onto something.
My studio is on the second floor of our villa with southwesterly windows overlooking the Gulf. I watch the waves and the palm fronds tossed by the wind with a bird’s eye view. It is the gift Oman has given me, so much nature in constant view. I watch the people too, walking along the paved walkway. There’s an old man with a cane walking slowly, arm and arm with his wife, they look European. A man in a dish dash—a white robe—and hat is holding onto grocery sacks, more men behind him, they’re looking for a place among the palms to sit and eat. There are people lined up along the grassy knoll, facing the waves, a man taking a photo. Shells and people. I see a connection. My hope is to observe individuals with the same thoughtful attention I offer to this tiny shell. People are complex, but there is simplicity too beneath all of our differences.
I stop work on the painting. I’m not sure it’s done, only that I’m done. I know each painting must come to a close, but it’s never an easy task deciding when exactly to cease and desist (painting does feel rebellious at times). I’ve already got another subject in mind—palm trees. I’m going to sketch them out first, take a little more time to prepare so I spend less time fixing mistakes. Live and learn.
The birds are calling outside my studio window, the waves crashing. I don’t take any of this for granted. I’ve lived in so many different places, cultures, homes, countries. I know what it means to be temporary and that one day this too will be gone. But I’m just as certain of another truth—that this place will never leave me. Neither will this moment of clarity, along with all the other life lessons I’ve experienced along the way. I’ll keep my painting of this shell, hang it in my next home, as a reminder that each time we outgrow our abode, therein lies the opportunity to create and discover.
It’s 4:30am on this Saturday morning and my body refuses to sleep. I’m jet lagged from the 11-hour time difference we grew accustomed to in Utah and waking up all hours of the night. As disturbing as it is to be up before dawn, I relished the time to organize my thoughts—me and the ocean waves crashing outside my window. Life could be worse.
It’s a new year and I’ve yet to make any goals beyond, get through today. It’s difficult to think ahead when our shipment just arrived, household stuff we packed up six months ago in St. George. Boxes are everywhere, clothes strewn across beds, floors, and tables. Decorations, books, bedding, towels, boxes of yarn, undone, sitting, waiting for me like belligerent children, to call them to order. I’ll begin in one room—stacking, folding, arranging—then find myself in another. Nothing is getting accomplished as fast as I want it to. Of course, it’s one thing to organize stuff and another entirely to sift through memories—pieces of a former life that recall people and places you loved. Love takes time.
With my feet propped up on a paper cutter resting atop of a box of acrylic paints, I sit in what will be my office at some point. Right now it looks more like the garage sale of a crafting addict. I’ve got plastic tubs of yarn (dreams in the making), containers of ribbon and colored paper, paints and brushes. They will all have to wait.
Yesterday, I sighed over a box of winter clothing that was supposed to go into storage. Mountains of thick down coats, hats and gloves, winter boots. We needed them in Sweden but Oman is still a balmy 85 in the depths of January; no reason to have those things here. I intended for our winter gear, and the greater portion of our books, to go into storage, as well as most of the decorations we now have, but somewhere in the shuffle of Washington D.C. storage, air shipment and boat shipment, our things did a swap o’ roo. The tools in the garage made it here but the piano didn’t!! Oh the piano! That one hurt. All these months I’d been waiting, reserving space along the living room wall…SIGH…
As a general rule, moves never go as planned. Disappointment, frustration, resignation, Hello…my old friends, nice to see you again. It’s one thing to get the lemons and make lemonade, but what if you don’t even get lemons…then what?
Then you have to conjure magic, I suppose, make something out of nothing. Like those nights you didn’t make it to the grocery store but need to make dinner anyway. You take the lonely can of tomatoes from the pantry, crack some eggs, whip it together with the last remaining onion in the bin, and pretty soon you’ve got yourself a scrambled dish that’s worthy of eating.
Life is a lot of scramble and conjuring. We devise and reinvent and make do. And at the end of it, with a little luck, we’ve really got ourselves something. In my case, I’m hoping to have a “home.” I’m working to make sense out of chaos, hoping to again find identity and purpose.
We all do this, to one degree or another. While I recreate my identity on a large scale every couple of years, in smaller, less noticeable ways, we do this daily. Each choice, each decision, each step in one direction means another not taken, as Robert Frost said, “that makes all the difference.” I read once our body’s cells change completely every seven years, meaning we’re a whole new self. Cell by cell. Day by day. Change, it seems, is built into who we are, it’s part of our DNA. It’s what we do to survive.
The New Year’s begun in America and the Christian world, but here in Oman, the New Year comes in September, with the first day in the Islamic lunar calendar. Days are counted differently too. In Oman a day begins at sunset with the cycle of the moon. I can attest Arabs loooove their nighttime hours. The beach is the most crowded from 6pm till 2am. I sometimes wear ear plugs to bed and turn on a fan to block out the noise from the laughter of adults and children playing outside at midnight.
Right now my days and nights are so mixed up, I’m not sure when one starts and the other begins. I’d be happy to go with either way. But the point is this, I think, anytime you want to begin…begin. There is no better time than today. I’ve heard that said, but now that I’m older, I’m inclined to believe it.
Rather than make goals, I’m going to set an “intention” for 2017. Intention sounds fancier, but really I’m trying to be practical. The truth is I can’t control much from day to day. I can’t even control what stuff I have in my life, I mean Maggie was going to take piano lessons, but now that we don’t have a piano, we’re going with violin. Three of those showed up, (the violins the boys used back in Vienna, when in 2nd grade they had a strings program). So for now, the idea is to have an intention, a mantra for the year at hand. It goes like this: Prioritize Joy.
Joy! I’ve been singing about “Joy to the World,” this past month and that felt good. I don’t think joy has to be as elusive as I make it. I’m the type that likes to focus and get things done, be productive, but here’s the thing…if you don’t stop the momentum of busyness, then joy has trouble fully seeping into consciousness.
Take the last four days my life, for example…I’ve been in my house, digging through my personal avalanche, working to make sense of life—quite literally—and with another week of doing the same it still won’t be as perfect as I want it to be. But with “Prioritize Joy,” as my intention, I’ll take a break from all of this, walk to the ocean’s edge, stick in my toe and maybe even pick up a seashell or two, take a few deep breaths. Life only happens once, but every moment is a chance to reinvent, to choose differently, to keep surprising ourselves.
I’m surprising myself right now, eating pretzels from an open bag I found next to a stapler, a statue of Michelangelo’s The David and an antique globe of the world. I tell you anything is possible this year, whether you started counting down in January or will begin in September, the year is raging and we cannot call it back. We can only join in the beautiful, resounding chaos and prioritize joy!
Our son is returning home from his two-year LDS mission in Indiana to Oman. Two years. 730 days since I’ve hugged this loveable guy, made him enchiladas and told him to pick up his room and don’t put empty cereal boxes back into the pantry. He was 18 when he left, fresh out of high school. He’s 20 now—lightyears older, filled with experience, stories to tell and wisdom beyond his youthful frame.
When I mention to friends about our son’s homecoming, the fact that we haven’t actually seen him in two years, they politely ask, What has he been doing? And that’s an interesting question, considering we’re living in Oman, because unbeknownst to most of the modern world, Oman intersects with Mormonism in a remarkable way, in fact, scholars are here now uncovering evidence that points to Oman as the launching point of one of the greatest books ever written, The Book of Mormon.
This book comes from an ancient record, originally written and abridged by historian and prophet Mormon who lived about 385 A.D. He wrote on gold plates, compiling the story of his people between the years 600 B.C. up until 430 A.D. The story begins in Jerusalem, but quickly winds its way here to Oman, to a town called Salalah, a 10-hour drive south of Muscat. With the permission of the Sultan, scientists and archeologists are digging to excavate the site where Mormon’s believe the prophet Lehi and his family journeyed to, from Jerusalem, prior to their sea voyage to America. Nephi, Lehi’s son, describes in the Book of Mormon how they built a ship and sailed to the “Promised Land.” Of course, in order to accomplish this feat, they would have needed resources…timber, food, and plants, a conundrum that perplexed skeptics and scientists for a long time, when they believed the Arabian Peninsula was all dry desert. But they didn’t know about Salalah.
“Bountiful,” was the name Nephi gave the place where they built their ship. Bountiful in Arabic means plentiful. Salalah meets the criteria for Nephi’s description, “And we did come to the land which we called Bountiful, because of its much fruit and also wild honey (1 Nephi 17). This area is unbelievably lush. It’s a virtual island of greenery along the Arabian Peninsula. Winds from the Indian Ocean carry moisture to the region and the heat of the desert pushes against that moisture to create a thick fog for part of the year, resulting in tropical monsoon forests. Located in the Dofar province, Salalah is the only place in the Middle East where timber and resources are available and where Nephi could have managed to gathered enough food to survive their long sea journey. Here is a photo taken from www.almosafr.com, showing Salalah during khareef season, monsoon season, July-September.
There are also remains of a Jewish temple foundation in Salalah, patterned after King Solomon’s temple. Archeologists have uncovered an altar, where they believe Nephi and his family offered sacrifices, as would have been customary with their practices of worship, prior to their departure.
Another link between the Arabian Peninsula and America is found in none other than Colorado. A huge square rock along the Purgatory River, nicknamed “Block Rock” has hieroglyphics matching those from the Dhofar region. Thirty-three characters from a distinctive alphabet used by the Sahari tribe are also written in Colorado. In the Oman Daily Observer, circulated in January of this year, Ali Ahmed Ali Mahash Ash-Shahri is quoted as saying, with regards to the hieroglyphics, “It is a clear indication that the language is very old and the people from our place must have travelled to those places and finally settled there.” Ali Ahmed, now 68 years old, has spent the greater part of his lifetime studying ancient scripts and has written two books, titled “Ancient Inscriptions and Drawings in Dhofar” and “Language of Aad.”
Micah and Jonah recently flew to Salalah to take part in a dig, helping archeologists remove rock as they continue to explore Karfot, the beach where they believe Nephi constructed his boat.
They had an amazing trip and somewhat exhausting time, hauling rocks and dirt from dig sites.
The Book of Mormon chronicles the journey of Nephi and his family up to the extinction of the Nephite civilization circa 435 A.D. It’s a story for the ages, one of courage, loss, love, bravery, hate, pride, valor and ultimately faith. Thanks to Mormon’s abridgement, (a Reader’s Digest version of 1,000 years), we have the history of these people. When Mormon completed abridging the record, he gave the plates to his son Moroni to bury in the hill Cumorah—modern day New York. From Jerusalem, to Salalah, to New York, comes one of the most fascinating journeys ever recorded in human history.
Left undiscovered until 1830, the plates remained hidden until Joseph Smith translated them into English. Now the Book of Mormon is translated into 110 languages, including Arabic. When Malachi returns home from his mission, we’ve got a trip planned to Salalah. He’s been teaching about Christ and The Book of Mormon for the past two years, even handing out copies when the Broadway Musical came to town… “Want to read the real story,” he’d ask? Two years of his life seems like a long time, but not nearly long enough, if you ask him. And if people stop to listen, he’ll tell them, The Book of Mormon is a story that resonates with our time, a story buried in the past, but meant for our future, for us…and my family happens to live where it all began.
Photos courtesy Jonah and Micah
Kalash the gardener rings the bell at our gate. It’s 2:00 in the afternoon. He’s come round to collect his money. I swing open the wooden door and invite him in. He gives me a quick sideways smile and begins to scan our yard. “The boss home?”
I’ve told him before, “the boss” works during the day, he’s not home till evening, but still Kalash tries. “No, he’s not home,” I remind.
“O-kay, o-kay,” he says, moving his head from side to side, in the way Indians do when they mean to say they understand.
During the week, a younger Indian man, wearing a blue and red striped polo, comes at irregular intervals to tend the yard. He rides his bike, rings at the gate and humbly enters when I open. He doesn’t say much, but repeats my “Good morning” greeting. He works steadily, the sweat dripping off his face watering the garden alongside the hose as he digs. The work is hard, especially in the heat and humidity. And before he’s finished, he’s careful to take a gigantic palm leaf and sweep the walkways, clearing the paths of fallen petals and debris. We have a broom, but he prefers working with a leaf and a dust pan–simple tools.
Kalash has finished scanning the yard and his earnest school boy gaze fixes on me, “You happy?”
I nod vigorously up and down. “Yes, I’m very happy.”
He bobbles his head from side to side with a graceful motion. “You happy,” he repeats. “O-kay, o-kay.”
We’ve discussed planting some vegetables in the previous weeks. I point to the empty dirt bed and ask Kalash what he intends to put in the ground. With an outstretched finger he points to the area in question and says, “Different, different, different, different.”
“Ahhh,” I nod with understanding, a puzzled finger on my chin. Different. I have no idea what he means. But given time, I know I’ll find out sooner or later, once everything starts to grow.
Which is to say that life is like that sometimes. You don’t always know what you’re going to get, till it takes root and pops up and then you deal with it, like it or not. Two months ago the yard was a patch of dirt, now I see possibilities everywhere. The coming season looks promising, and I don’t just mean the garden. I mean life in Oman, it’s beginning to look well… very different.
Omani National day is on November 18th and strangely I’m feeling a swell of pride for a country, who despite its warring neighbors, has managed to maintain peace in the region while benefitting from the diversity within its borders. A few weeks ago I was an apprehensive expat, unsure of how I fit in or if I fit in. Now I’m a bit mystified as to why I felt that way…how did I acquire so many fears and assumptions?
I sat in on a lecture today about Omani Heritage. I was fascinated to learn of the geographical influences that shaped (literally) the cultural diversity of today. The desert and mountains of the north separated Oman from their Arab neighbors, and with their borders open to the sea, a natural interaction developed between Africa and Asia, countries like Pakistan, India, Zanzibar and Tanzania. One of the oldest Hindu temples in the world, is in Oman.
Because this cultural diversity developed, laws were made to foster stability. The law forbids Omanis or Imams to identify a particular tribe or Muslim sect in a derogatory way. Here all Muslims are Omani. And the Omani people, unlike what I’d first imagined, are generous, helpful and kind. Just today, as I was driving in traffic, a man rolled down his window to tell me my engine hood was open. Another day, down at the beach one morning, I’d gone swimming and left my towel and sandals on the sand. When I emerged later, my things had been moved to higher ground, someone had noticed they’d get wet and kindly helped.
There is a sense here that we are all deserving of respect. Of course, there are exceptions, and it could very well be that some feel indifference toward me or even disdain, but I’m focusing on the ways I belong, searching for how I can best embrace this experience.
There are frustrations, to be sure. The other morning when I tried to exit my driveway, a car was parked blocking me. The Bangladesh passengers were waiting on their driver who had gone inside the neighboring Embassy. I waited, inconveniently, and pointed to the signs we have posted on our gate in English, Arabic and Bangladesh, NO PARKING. But still, when people see an advantage, some take it at the expense of another. Also frustrating are the mornings we find the beach littered with trash. This is especially true of Sunday morning, the Omani “Monday,” following their Friday and Saturday weekend break. Crew workers are dispatched to clean up the garbage, donning latex gloves and long sharp sticks to grab up the mess, but not before stray cats and hundreds of crows have their fill, nor before diapers and plastic bags make their way into the sea.
This past weekend I flew to Abu Dhabi to meet up with friends. It’s less than an hour’s flight. The expats living in the UAE gushed about Oman. They went on and on about how wonderful it is to camp on the beaches here, hike in the Wadis and climb in the mountains. Listening to them, I felt the way I often do when considering giving something away and a friend says, “Why would you ever get rid of that, it’s marvelous!” Indeed, Oman is marvelous, and after talking to them, I feel all the luckier for being here!
Consequently, upon my arrival back at the Omani airport, I greeted the people at the passport desk with a smile and cheery hello. They asked me if this was my first time to Oman and I found myself saying, “No it’s not. I love this place. I love coming here.” Enjoy your time, they said.
There are things I love and things I wish I could change, like anywhere, but I intend to enjoy my time, as it were, and see what takes root and what pops up. I’m sure it will be different.
We’re a month into our move and starting to explore, discover Omani culture and the vast desert landscape that, for now, still feels quite foreign. When friends asked if we’d like to visit Jebel Akhdar, we jumped at the chance, happy to have our friends, and tour guide John, to point the way.
To reach Al Jebel Akhdar, “The Green Mountain,” as it’s called in Arabic, you drive south west for a little over an hour. At the town of Birkat Al Mouz you take the exit (we missed it the first time, then drive to the base of the mountain and a police checkpoint. The law requires anyone entering the mountain road to have a 4-wheel drive vehicle and no more than 6 passengers. It’s for good reason, Jebel Akhdar is not to be trifled with. Roads are safely paved and there are guardrails, but the journey is steep and cars have been known to burn out their breaks on the descent to disastrous consequence.
Seeing our GMC and 6 passenger group, the guards waved us through and we began our ascent into the Al Hajar mountain range. Jebel Akhdar comprises the central region of this vast series of rocky peaks separating the coastal region of Northern Oman and the high desert plateau of the south. “Al,” means the, and “Hajar” is rock or stone in Arabic. An appropriate description for endless ridges that have been features of our planet for millions of years. The mountain formed when tectonic plates collided, the Arabian plate and the Iranian plate, and the earth rose up and in effect, took a bow and stayed there, the sedimentary rock hardening to a sand-colored moonscape.
Omani’s love to go to the mountains and spend an evening camping. The weather is 20 degrees cooler and the air feels much drier, a welcomed change from the humidity and 100 degree and higher temperatures of the coast. This region of Al Hajar is also famous for its pomegranates and as we neared mountain villages, sure enough men and boys sat on lawn chairs, cardboard boxes by their feet, proudly displaying their crop. We stopped to buy some, “How much?” we asked.
They weren’t cheap. Each pomegranate cost between 1-2 Rial, that’s 3-4 US dollars apiece. But trust me, they were worth it. I’d never tasted anything so unbelievably juicy and sweet. Absent of the bitter pith you get with typical varieties, the outside was as large as a grapefruit, the skin a pale red blush, and inside the fruit was bright and rosy. It tasted like eating miniature grapes. Seven-year-old Maggie described it best when she said, “It tastes like happiness.”
Afterward, we drove and parked in an area next to a mountainside village. As we began to hike I fell in love with these colorful villager’s doors.
Ancient history doesn’t feel so ancient in Jebel Achkdar. The old and the new mix. The stone steps, built into the mountains hundreds of years ago, are still used today. So are the farming techniques of planting and reaping the season’s bounty from lush terraced landscapes.
It was harvest season, so villagers were out plucking up pomegranates, young Omani men, balancing fruit in blue plastic crates on top of their heads as they navigated the stone stairways upward.
After our first long hike, Maggie needed a break (maybe I did too). So we let the adults and teenagers go ahead and we sat for a while near some village houses. Nearby was a stall, manned by a group of boys no older than twelve. They were selling glass bottles filled with colored liquids…tinctures and “medicines,” potions and concoctions to cure everything from tummy aches to baldness. They were also selling corn.
We asked to buy a cup and a boy with grey blue eyes gave us a capable nod before ladling a spoonful from a steaming hot pot into a silver bowl. He added spices, sprinkling in finely ground black pepper, red chili, and salt, then added a splash of lemon juice and oil. He stirred and stirred until satisfied, then spooned the contents into a plastic cup.We took our golden treasure back to the shade and sat to eat. Ohhhh, the taste was heavenly! Big sweet kernels with a bite of heat, tempered by tart lemon. For the second time that day, we felt we’d made a life changing discovery.
After devouring the corn Maggie’s energy returned, along with her sense of adventure. She wanted to race down the stairway and catch up with the group. On her way she stopped and said, “Mom take my photo.” The backdrop looked treacherous. “Taking your photo here,” she explained, “makes you look brave.”
I laughed. But you are already brave, I thought. No need for backdrops. And in that moment I saw the girl who’d moved Oman without complaint, leaving behind friends, family and a school she loved. Bravery might be in the landscape, but it was also in Maggie. And maybe in all of us for hiking on these stairways.
After a morning of hiking there’s nothing better than eating outdoors. We decided our best option for lunch was a local hotel so we piled into our vehicles in search of a good meal and clean bathrooms. Hotels are for more than just sleeping in Oman, they offer gym memberships, pools and clean bathrooms—a helpful tip to remember.
The hotel we found had a lovely courtyard overlooking the ruins where we’d just hiked.
We dined outdoors, eating sandwiches and drinking Pepsi. Like many places in Oman, they don’t sell Coke. Some Omani’s refuse to drink Coke…something to do with rumors (maybe started by Pepsi), that the Coke label when held in a mirror says something against Mohammad when read backwards. Of course there’s overwhelming evidence to refute this, including the fact the label was created in Atlanta in 1886 and the Spenserian script was simply popular at that time, but some rumors never die.
The Green Mountain offered us another view of Oman, this country of contrasts, and reminded me bravery is more than a backdrop, in truth it’s facing your mountains and making the climb. We did plenty of climbing. Jebel Akhdar, we’ll be back, for cooler temperatures and more pomegranates!
There are four main roads in Muscat, running more or less an east west direction, parallel to each other. Hugging the coastline is November 18th and to the south is Al Sultan Qaboose (pronounced Caboose), named after the revered Sultan. It zig zags from the Royal Police Stadium to the Airport and takes you most places you need to go. 23rd of July is a few degrees inland from there, a less assuming thoroughfare, running into the Muscat Expressway—the road I take to get to my kid’s school. With an American license I can drive, but in 60 days from arrival, I’ll need to register officially, do the paperwork and get a photo ID. I need to figure it all out, but right now I’m busy just driving. Lucky to be alive, I’d say, after going the wrong direction on a three lane freeway.
It’s easier than you’d think to make THAT mistake, especially if you’re used to turning left to go left and forget to turn right to go left. There are “slip” roads and “fly overs” and exits going one way then sharply banking the other. I liken driving in Oman to reading Arabic, it’s right to left when reading, and driving feels much the same way.
I was grateful to the cars honking behind me when I went the wrong direction, of course the arrows helped too, THREE TRAFFIC ARROWS POINTING DIRECTLY AT ME!!! The median was too high to Evel Knievel with my rental, so I swerved into the turn lane, waited for a couple of cars to pass, then peeled around James Bondesque style. I don’t know how I managed it, to be honest, that time of day is usually heavy with traffic, but thankfully I live to drive another day. Inshallah.
Yes I do have a GPS, but I only know how to program it to go home. On the upside, I can get as lost as I want and feel reassured of seeing my husband and kids again. Addresses are all but useless here, even ambulances don’t rely on them. Landmarks are more helpful for locating places. If you know the name of the mosque you live by, you can generally find your way from there. Taxi drivers don’t know addresses either. So you have to know where you want to go or fughetaboutit. Here’s the Grand Mosque. One of the largest and most stunning Mosques in all of Oman. This I can find.
I would be a lot less nervous about driving if there weren’t traffic cameras at each intersection and along all major roadways. Drive too fast and you’ll see a Flash Bam KABoom! (Really it’s just a flash). It means you got a ticket and if you try to leave the country they will detain you at the airport until the bill is paid. (That’s one way to collect revenue.) The other thing that slightly terrifies me is the possibility of running a red light. Not that I make a habit out of this, but if do you happen to zip through unawares you’ll pay a hefty fine and spend a couple of nights in jail. (Not on my, “Things To Do in Muscat” List).
Driving and getting lost is, however, on my “Least Favorite Things To Do,” list. I question my sanity each time I move to a new country and have to find my way around all over again!! Again? Why? WHY?!? Why do I do this? And then I go on a drive and get lost and see a camel. A CAMEL!! And I go, OK, getting lost is fun!! And I remember my favorite quote…A good day is a good day. A bad day is a good story. So it’s all good. It’s ALL good!!
It’s super great and getting better, cause I found a Facebook page called, “Where Can I Find In Muscat?” I asked the “Group” where I could get a good haircut, an essential first step when moving, and they responded to my plea. Gorgeous Hair. I found it driving there my first try! Nicky, the owner, trimmed my fringe (bangs to us Yankees), and gave me a new lease on life. She understood my fine, straight hair and more importantly, understood ME. For a few blissful moments I felt normal, something I haven’t felt much these past few weeks.
Most of the time I feel very aware of being different, the odd one out. I’m a white lady with short hair and jeans, an anomaly, a westerner, one of THEM. I feel looks of indifference. I’ve learned not to go around smiling my big ol’ American grin at people. Instead I’m a shy Mona Lisa, with a mysterious upturned lip. Gauging the crowd. It’s what you do instinctively.
I’ve been told by many long time expats, Oman is very safe. It is true. You can walk around at night. Even if you are alone, and a woman, you won’t have to worry. But feeling safe isn’t the same as feeling comfortable, or normal for that matter. And maybe getting lost on the map, with three arrows pointing in your direction, is a lot like feeling lost in life. Lost on the inside. It’s frightening and confusing when suddenly everything you know has changed. But here’s the thing…when you’re world changes, look for the camel. It’s there, you just have to keep searching, keep discovering, one mini life expedition at a time. I’ve been lost before (many, many, many times), and I’ve always found, getting lost is the first step to finding your way back home.
To every sojourner who journeys, the path is yours to make.