Pale and Wasted

Yesterday I got onto a fishing boat and headed off into the ocean with twelve girls. The ethnic makeup of the group consisted mainly of Brits, and if one wasn’t an actual Brit one was a colonised other of the British Empire. When the bevy of mainly blond headed, sundress wearing lasses walked down onto the beach where our two fishing boats were waiting our two young fisherman escorts looked like they had just woken up from a very nice dream. Considering the fact that a bare shoulder and a flash of ankle is risqué I shudder to think what these two young men were thinking. Ironically enough one of the fisherman’s t-shirts had the slogan – ‘my reality check just bounced’.

So we clamoured onto the boat and headed down the coast to a spot whose name I can’t remember. Yes, I’m a great travel journalist. During out little paddle we witnessed some hair raising aquatic manoeuvres performed by our randy fishermen who showed that man can indeed be dextrous and stupid with a pathetic little engine and some testosterone. At this point I feel that I must indicate that I was the one who was muttering ‘please don’t do that’ under my breath and I even sank down onto the floor at one point when it was decided that it was a good idea for the two boats to come close enough together so that the girls could hold hands. One gets the feeling that some cultures have a far more protected experience of life than others. South Africans are adventurous by nature but we also know a kak idea when we see one. It is no wonder then to me that most of those tragic and dismal stories that begin with ‘tourist attacked by a lion in the Kruger’, ‘tourist drowns in freak boating accident’ etc etc happen to...yes, tourists. South Africa has its fair share of shit things happening anyway, why provoke more?

The spot we went to is like, hmmm, difficult to describe. Imagine a whole lot of mountains have split apart and the sea has weaved its way in between these mountains.  Some of the mountains have formed small beaches, we were dropped off onto one such beach. It was about ten in the morning and the fishermen were told to return at four thirty. When I took one look at our treeless, shadeless, umbrellaless beach I nearly ran out after the boats. When one’s back has begun to look like its been decorated in scarred tissue polka dots and the word skin cancer is bantered around by both ones grandmother and mother as if its a close friend one will understand my panic. Who in their right minds spends an entire day in the blazing sun on a literal desert island? My answer was soon given. 

As each girl gaily ripped off her clothing in an act that would have made High Hefner excited I soon discovered why this melanoma inducing locale was considered wonderful. Two words for you – lily white. I was practically a sun bleached goddess next to most of this lot. We are talking about bodies that have never seen the sun, translucent. With a half hearted attempt at sunblock the girls settled down into sun induced comas. It was then that I reapplied my second layer of sunblock, I had already done a layer in the car on the way.  

And so we spent a lovely day on the beach, eating junk, talking girly things.  Given the fact that every man and his jet ski was determined to show off for the beach full of girls I was glad I managed to see any fish at all what with the churning water. By three I was out of my wet costume and into dry underwear, thrush apparently not a big issue with these girls. I had also put my fourth layer of sunblock on and I was wearing the hugest sunhat, its shade literally covered my entire body and so for the last few hours of our beach soirée I sat in a foetal position under my hat.

When both boats finally arrived (there was a slight Survivor moment when we had to choose who would be left on the island because only one boat had arrived) the girls stood up, some for the first time in hours, and I could literally hear the skin tightening as it began to glow an ominous pink. The effects of the sunburn resulted in some of the girls choosing not to don most of their clothing because it was just too painful and difficult to attempt covering up. Our trip back involved much screaming and whooping and I was very glad I wasn’t on the other boat where one of the girls had decided to steer the boat herself. When we arrived back on the beach from which we had launched ourselves there was far more activity than when we had left in the morning. Lets just say the beach was full.

With our fishermen now looking like Bollywood heros the girls disembarked from the fishing boats.  A days worth of sun made for jumping off the side of the boat and into the water fairly difficult. Even I was quite shocked by the view of a girl, legs akimbo, getting off the boat, her groin directed straight towards an old man and his wife. After much struggling up the beach with cooler boxes with bits of female hanging out of all the wrong places we finally got to the parking lot. Here we were accosted by Indian men wanting to take pictures of us. We declined, not politely.

This morning I woke up refreshed and pasty white and for the first time in ages I thanked myself for being a sensible old grannygoose. Somewhere out there an Irish girl is radiating greenhouse gases and she is wondering whether it’s worth the pain of getting out of bed to make a dash to the loo and vomit. Somewhere out there too is an Omani fisherman who is having himself a good reality check. 

They shall not hunger nor thirst; neither shall the heat nor sun smite them: for he that has mercy on them shall lead them, even by the springs of water shall he guide them. Isiah 49:10

Of Intercourse and Modals

The Germans walk in, on time. Punctuality is key. My weakest student attempts broken English with sharp nods of his head, ‘Cood avernoon’. I reply to his greeting. Students are already preparing for the lesson. Sharp clicks of their files and methodical dossier systems indicate precision, order and structure. Only Germans can build what these Germans are currently building – a massive lifestyle resort, complete with its own marina, literally in the middle of no where. I look up to watch my one female student, I stare in wonder – she has literally attached Velcro strips to all her writing instruments which then attach to one long Velcro strip on the inside of her file. I see a perturbed expression enter her face – her eraser is running low, it is getting dangerously close to her Velcro strip, very worrying. With curt greetings muttered we get straight into business. I pray that they all know what past participles are because I don’t.

Later on in the day I sit and wait for my next class. They are already five minutes late. The first Omani saunters in, ‘Hello teacher, any news?’ News is important in this place, I try to make some up. The next student enters. He spends a minute greeting the first student. They swop news. He then greets me, asks me what my news is. I repeat my news. A couple more students enter, they all say their hellos, discuss their news, they ask me mine. By now we are ten minutes late. Finally most of the students are seated at their desks. I take a breath readying myself for a confused preamble into modals. As I am about to speak the last student enters. As he does so the entire class stands up and he goes to each one of them greeting them in turn and sharing news. The energy of this class is wonderfully laid back , similar to that in South Africa. What I was about to say goes completely out of my head and so when I eventually get the attention of the whole class I have nothing to say so I tell them my news.

I’m learning a million things as I go along , about culture, society and what it means to be a foreigner. I am also meeting amazing people who have the ability to bring a sense of home into my life, even if they aren’t South Africans. Every day survived is a marvel and every dark moment turns to light because my God is with me.

‘Humble yourselves therefore under the mighty hand of God, that he may exalt you in due time: Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you.’ 1 Peter 5:6-7

In Search of God

I am a loyal South African who has kept her sleeping patterns precisely as they were when I left SA, so when its 10:00pm and time for bed in SA it’s midnight here which means it must be bedtime for me too. The same happens in the mornings, I wake up at 9:00am (7:00pm South African time) and thus I feel I’m doing something for my country, paralleling my sleeping patterns and whatnot.

I like my sleep, many of you can attest to this, and so it was with a half baked heart that I woke up at 8:00am to go to Church this morning. It’s quite amusing – in Muscat there are two Churches, the Protestant Church and the Roman Catholic Church (there may be others but I haven’t heard of them yet). I have no doubt that the fact that the all the people who choose not to pray to the Virgin Mary are now all worshipping under the same banner would make the Methodists and the Anglicans of the Bergville and Winterton parishes squirm. Anyway, so I get up, eat my honey melt whole wheat Pronutro (yes people, Pronutro, remarkable, I know); I put on my mooi mooi Church outfit and head of to find my God in a country that certainly worships someone else.

As with most of my driving in this place I had my trusty diary on my lap with some quickly scribbled directions written in a corner somewhere. To cut a long story short it turns out that there are two Ghala offramps. I took the first one and apparently it was the wrong choice. My delightful little trip to Church turned out to be a delightful little trip into the desert. I then had to renegotiate my way back into the city via heavy road works and strange detours. Miraculously enough I managed to find my way home. At this point I would like to throw a few names of places out there – Al Khuwayr Ash Shamaliyyah, Al Khuwayr Al Janubiyyah, Al Udhaybah Al Janubiyah, Hayy Al Urafn, Al Wadi Al Kabir. I know my mom is laughing right now because I know that her spacial dyslexia just kicked in. Lets just leave it at this – I probably did more praying in my car trying to find my way home than I would ever have done if I actually went to Church.  

And now for something completely different. I went to Kickboxing on Wednesday night. There is something very awkward about being in a room full of sweaty men, in a Muslim country, doing pelvic thrusts. Perhaps the most distressing part was the noise accompanied by these thrusts.

An even more disturbing event, however, happened when I got home from kick boxing. If one may, just for a moment, consider the state of my body after doing an hour of kick boxing one will imagine how desperate I was for a nice hot shower. So I lathered up, shampoo and all, and was happily washing away when horror of horrors my shower died. Literally, it didn’t just slow down to a trickle, it died. Dripping in shampoo I decided to keep my composure and head to my other bathroom. Dead. Not a drop. With panic slowly rising I tried all the basins and even the funny toilet hoses. Nothing. I even tried to lift the cistern off the toilet but it wouldn’t budge. Now, when I shampoo my hair I take no prisoners. The froth was beginning to form puddles of bubbles around my legs and my entire flat had a trail of panicked to and fro movements of shampoo lather. I then remembered my last bottle of drinking water. With great dexterity I managed to meter out the water so that it just rinsed my entire head and my body. Needless to say I didn’t have that warm fuzzy feeling when I went to bed that night.

And now two days later I can barely move. When you have a body like mine, that considers a slow amble down to the farm yard with the dogs serious exercise, you can only imagine the agony I am currently in. From the amount of groans that accompany my every movement one could well imagine that I am back on the kick boxing floor joining in with the cacophony of men performing pelvic thrusts.      

‘And when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by men.’ Matthew 6:5

Images of Oman

Images of my drive to Sifah.

Piff Paff

So it turns out that I was indeed right about my previous tenant. My boss and a colleague read my latest entry and were very amused – I am indeed sleeping in the bed of a sloth whose concept of hygiene was limited to knowing what a bathroom was. I doubt, however, that he used it much. My body is covered in bites and I have been searching high and low for bed bug repellent.

Now, when one looks for insect repellent generally their names go along these lines – ‘Mortal Death – makes bugs bleed, even in death’ or ‘Pest Terror – a way to end your nightmares and to start theirs’. I find it comforting knowing that these hideous miniscule creatures are going to die an agonising, painful death. It puts a content little smile on my face. I also like the pictures on the canisters – there is nothing more beautiful than an upended mozzie. Don’t even get me started on the Rattex boxes – too stunning. One can imagine my disappointment when I discovered that the Omani version of ‘Raid – kills germs dead’ is ‘Piff Paff’. I swear to you they have called a bug repellent ‘Piff Paff’. So what’s their pathetic little catch phrase going to be? ‘I’ll piff and I’ll paff and I’ll blow your house down’. Puh leez.  

Because I have very little faith in this namby pamby Piff Paff I have spread almost an entire box of powder onto my bed. And now I sit here, smugly, I can almost hear the strangulated cries for help from those little bastards and it is music to my ears. Rohini, the cleaner at school, will come over later to perform the funeral...with her vacuum cleaner. I will be there in full mourning.

I have had to over come my fear of driving into the desert twice a week, it is going to be my toughest challenge. I drove out there yesterday by myself. I knew that if I was going to rid myself of my anxiety with regard to the trip I would have to do the journey alone and so now, not having even been here for two weeks, I have taught myself to drive and will be driving a road that could be compared to Chapman’s Peak’s older brother who was once on steroids. It is a spectacular drive though and I will post pictures of the best bits onto the blog shortly.

‘Remember how the Lord your God led you all the way in the desert these forty years, to humble you and to test you in order to know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep His commands.’                                                                                               Deuteronomy 8: 1

Operation Desert Storm

When I first arrived at my flat and began to unpack my worldly wares I started to judge the person who lived in this flat before me. This is not an unusual thing to do, and I think we can all admit to deciding on a person’s entire life story judging by the state that they left the oven in when they vacated the premises.

The person who lived in this flat before me, judging solely on the few discoveries that I made, definitely had an affliction of some sort. Now you may be thinking to yourself ‘ok Nancy Drew give us your proof’.  And I will, in a minute. I need however, to add that I surmised that the previous tenant had one of two possible afflictions.

My first impulse was that the tenant was a British male (no woman would ever leave a kitchen in that state) and so would have been unused to the Arabian heat. As a result he broke into a heat rash that soon covered his body in flaky bits of skin. These flakes then drifted slowly onto the ground like a lazy snow storm. Soon his hair, his clothes and his bed were reminiscent of a volcanic ash cloud. This would also explain my rather terrifying suspicion that there are bed bugs in my bed. It was this miniscule white matter that I then spent half an hour cleaning from the drawers that were to house my underwear, something which I was not altogether over the moon about. And thus my first hypothesis was this – our British hero, in a near state of leprosy, abandoned his life in Arabia to seek cooler climates and thus vanished in a cloud of his own dust.     

My second suspicion was that the previous tenant had a fetish for talcum powder. Perhaps he was not a fan of bathing, or even worse, was phobic of water and so in an effort to keep smelling relatively fresh bathed himself in a cloud of powder every morning (this again would explain the bed bugs). Perhaps one day, while innocently loitering in the bathroom, he slipped and fell and grabbed hold of the first thing he could find. Here I need to explain a little device used in Muslim plumbing for those of you who have yet to visit me. All toilets have a little hosepipe thing with a nozzle at the end hanging next to the cistern. I gather it is used as a replacement for toilet paper. There are also drains in the floor for when one is ‘tidying up’ or whatever one does with the hose. I personally find it very handy for cleaning the floor. Anyway, back to my story. So our hero trips, grabs hold of the hose, unknowingly sets off the nozzle and sprays water all over himself. Streams of chalky white gunk begin to run freely off his body and years of sweat and dirt begin to cake the drain. This trauma is all too much for our hero, he can never trust himself to loiter in a bathroom again and so he packs his bag and sets off to a place where he knows he will be safe from water and where the sands of time will serve as his talcum powder, he disappears into the desert, never to be seen again.

I thought both these stories were highly plausible and I was proud of my sleuthing abilities, I left no stone unturned. And so I set about sweeping, mopping and cleaning in order to rid my flat of the dusty white memorabilia of its tragic previous tenant. I opened the windows, sang the song that Snow White sang when she cleaned the seven dwarves’ cottage and I like to think that goats, donkeys and camels surrounded my block of flats as I whistled while I worked. Oman is a little bit short of rabbits, squirrels and blue birds. After a long day of cleaning I dramatically mopped my brow and collapsed onto my couch, satisfied. I could feel the cool breeze of the desert blowing in through the open windows and I could hear the distant sound of a head on collision as yet another person added to the death as a result of an accident per capita quota. All was right in the world.

That night I slept well and I nestled further into my duvet when I heard the wind begin to pick up its momentum. When I woke up the next morning and stepped out of bed I felt a familiar and definitive crunch under my foot. I pretended to ignore it and by the time I reached the bathroom the soles of my feet could no longer feel the floor because they had amassed such a thick layer of kak. It was then that I forced myself to realise that I was not living in the former home of someone (who if treated properly) could become the world wide ambassador of Head and Shoulders. I was also not living in the home of an aqua-phobic. I was living in the desert. And I have quickly come to realise that the desert will come right into your home if you are not careful. It will hide in those crannies that are an absolute bitch to clean and it will layer your clothes like a soft sprinkling of icing sugar.

I still sleep with my windows open, one must relish a breeze while one can, but it is with reverence that I now look out of my window to the endless desert. I am only a visitor here, the desert has made that blatantly clear and though I may one day leave the desert will still be here sweeping bits of itself into this place, claiming its rightful ownership over the entire city.

A few pics around Muscat

My first week in Muscat

Butterflies

This morning I woke up in a positive state of mind. There have been things that have been worrying me, but I have decided not to let them worry me anymore, because worry leads to fatigue, anxiety and doubt. And so I set off to do some shopping. Before I tell you a little story about my walk to the shops (which yet again involved a few drive-bys from curious men), I need to explain that the only form of fauna I have seen since I got here has been goats and donkeys. Apparently there are mozzies, but they have yet to step into my presence, luckily for them - I have come armed with enough Peaceful Sleep to rid the whole of Africa of insects in general.

Anyway, as I was walking, a beautiful monarch butterfly came and flew around me, it continued to flutter alongside me for a while and then disappeared down an adjoining street. Some of you, but not all, will know that I lost a very special cousin, Sammy, on Christmas day. She had leukaemia and struggled with the illness for two years before she passed away. Her special symbol was a butterfly. All her thank you cards to the people who helped raise and donate money for her bone marrow transplant received butterfly cards, and inside them Sam wrote that butterflies were a symbol of new life and she thanked everyone who helped for being part of giving her the chance to create her new life. And so as I seek to be positive and to create a new life for myself that is in constant celebration of God, the people I love and my purpose on this earth, I thank Sammy for giving me the first nudge in the right direction.

It is Wednesday today. Apparently I don’t teach on Wednesdays. I’ll be getting my car today. This prospect is met with a mixed amount of trepidation and excitement. It’s been horrible having to rely on others to fetch and carry me but I think it’s going to be even more of a trauma to eventually have some wheels of my own. Again, I cannot begin to explain what it is like being in a car on these roads. Think the centre of Maritzburg, on fast forward, with less indicating.

A major source of my anxiety has come from the knowledge that I will have to drive out into the desert twice a week. I have a contract with the German construction company Lupp and they are building a massive resort in the middle of nowhere and their engineers etc need to learn English. The drive to Sifah is spectacular. One drives through a stark mountain range for an hour, one then comes over the crest of a mountain and below is a turquoise lagoon flanked by mountains on all sides. There are quant little fishing villages in this valley and one gets the first feeling that this is the real Arabia. These villages are just as one would imagine – the architecture is beautiful and each village has its own mosque. It’s quite astounding - even the most humble of hovels has the ubiquitous air conditioner. I shudder to think what summer is going to be like. In my mind these villages will probably look like goat towns in summer, and that is not a typo, seriously there are goats everywhere and I doubt they get to have a spot next to the air conditioning in summer.

For all the beauty that this drive holds there is one slight problem with my having to drive out there twice a week. In fact there are two slight problems – I don’t know how to drive on the other side of the road yet and the road itself is the stuff of nightmares. I doubt the engineers who designed that road get much sleep at night. I certainly don’t. But this is where I have to be positive. Yes, it’s going to be kak, but diamonds get made under extreme pressure, or magic, or something, they’re also apparently a girl's best friend blah blah etc etc.

I have been warned by concerned friends that I must be careful what I say in this blog as it could get me into trouble. It’s all rather confusing because I chatted to my employer yesterday and she said as long as one does not insult the Sultan one has a right to remark on the country. She even went as far as to say that if I had a controversial blog she would like to put it on the school’s website in order to attract attention to the school. I’m just going to have to learn to balance what and how I say things. I know I’m new here but the point of this blog is to document the things I learn during my time here. I have no doubt that even in a few months time I will read my opening blog and think ‘if only you knew’. I would also argue however that a fresh pair of eyes in a foreign country pick up the most, whereas once one is used to a new reality it is more difficult to comment on the differences because one has got used to them. And so I will continue to comment on my findings, I will just do so while writing with caution.

And so I have survived my first week in Muscat. It feels like a lot longer. Einstein was right.

In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die.
Where you invest your love, you invest your life.
Awake my soul,
You were made to meet your maker.

                                (Mumford and Son)