Like a Giraffe in Central Park

That's how I appear, apparantly. It would be more glamorous perhaps, to say "Like Madonna at the Western Wall" but that would imply papparazzi. And here it's just me walking down the street and going into a restaurant or a tea shop. But that's enough. There are not too many women out these evenings, and the ones that are are wearing hijab and are usually with a related man. Meanwhile I am bouncing around in baggy, nearly frumpy clothes, but the streets are full of labourers from the Indian Subcontinent--away from their wives, mothers and sisters for long contracts, and the sight of me tripping along is remarkable, I'm guessing. But I can usually find a peaceful spot--it's not so bad here, not like certain other countries I won't mention. But I do feel like like a giraffe in Central Park. Picture it, and you will know exactly how I'm perceived. Crowds of people trying to ignore, but staring all the same. It makes me want to bleat like a goat, or start juggling eggs.

Interestingly enough, what with the news about Blackwater, the "security" company which the US govt hires as mercenaries in Iraq--according to news reports, they lost their license and had to stop work in Iraq for several days before having their license reinstated, and now the Maliki govt is intent on prosecuting some of them--well, Al Jazeera had an interesting documentary just last week about the sheer numbers of mercenaries working for Blackwater and how high this boosts the actual number of US personnel in Iraq. When these hired soldiers kill civilians, if there is a threat that the Maliki govt will prosecute, then they (the hired guns) can be evacuated, and if they are killed, then they are not counted among the American war dead because they are not US armed forces. Convienent.

I looked at the Blackwater website, wondering if they would give a complete number of contracters in Iraq and Afghanistan but no luck. I did see, however, that they have their own training facilities in Afghanistan and Azerbaijan.
I asked my friend about this documentary and the US presence in Oman--he recalled a US military flight at Salalah a few years ago, en route to Afghanistan, and the officer asking where they were, exactly and my friend showing him on a globe. The same friend also talked about the American Air base in Thumrait. Apparently this is one of several we maintain here in Oman--but I am told there are plenty of coffins going through this base. It's too bad I've left Dhofar, not that I would be able to see anything, but sometimes you can learn things from poking around...I do wonder just how many contracters there are in Iraq and Afghanistan--Blackwater and others. I don't know if there is a reputable website that might show this.

But back to Oman, I'm in Nizwa again, after making a run out to the Wahiba Sands desert area in the western Sharqiya. I stayed at Al Sharqiya Sands Hotel--large and ornate, out in the middle of the wind. There was not one other car in the lot when I drove in, and I thought perhaps it was closed, not being able to see inside the tinted doors, but when I dashed in, a poor lone Indian man in a suit stood rigidly behind the counter waiting for me, it seemed. Yes, they had a room, in response to my grave question. There was not another soul around. The souvenier display case sold a fun and interesting mix of rubber bands, hair ties, colouring books, and little chinese trinkets. I was enthralled.

I went to the all womens souk in Ibra this morning but felt like a naked harlot in my lovely flowing Salalah dress. Everywhere else in Oman I get nods of approval for this dress, which trails the floor becomingly. In Ibra, however, it seemed that every woman looked askance at my feet and I was was forced to wonder if, perhaps, it was my ankles that caused rancor. Most of the local women had trousers (with very cute embroidered cuffs in sparkly colours) under their dresses, but not all! One old woman even hissed something nasty at me, but fortunately I didn't understand her. So I scuttled back to my little red car, trying not to trip on my train, and drove off.

Sharqiya

I had to hire a 4 x 4 for the drive up the coastal road to Sur. As it turns out, this wasn't strictly necessary, but it was helpful. The road is, or rather, was, a semi graded track, running right along the coast, passing the most exquisite and wonderful pristine beaches, wadis, sinkholes. But now they are building a paved road next to it--a dual carriageway.
Most of this new road is "complete" in the sense that it's pavement, and there is a center divider. And even some lines painted on here and there. It's so easy to relax and take advantage of this empty highway, and tempting to go fast, like you can on all of Oman's well-kept highways.
But it's not a good idea.

The road is actually not yet finished. There are no signs and this is what tipped me off, thankfully. No signs telling you, for example, obstacle ahead. And there, smack in the middle of the empty, freshly laid pavement, are concrete barricades. Oops. And every time I would start to build a little speed, keeping my eyes alert and wide, boom! The road ended. Or a dumptruck's worth of rocks spread across the lanes. Or in one case, the road went off a very high ravine.
All in good fun, nonetheless. It's another good reason not to have drunk drivers.

Each time I encountered an obstacle, I would look for the way around, because there always was one. Sometimes this consisted of a long roundabout route over the old, now uncared-for track, around a ravine, with sharp turns and cliff edges. Sometimes it was just a question of taking the approaching side and zipping down that one. Oncoming traffic never seemed bothered.

But I made it to Sur, just at dark, and somehow managed to find the Sur Beach Hotel. I had attempted to first go and stay out at Ras al Hadd, a flat and nonsescript headland famous for turtle nests, all protected of course, and so one of the best spots in the world to watch these creatures plod up onto the beach, lay their eggs, somewhat futiley, and plod back into the sea. There are 2 places for this--Ras al Hadd and Ras al Jinz. I made for the first--there is a hotel on the beach but no sooner did I come accross this place, but I screeched to halt, gravel spraying everywhere. It was possibly the most terrifying hotel I have ever seen. Concrete and chain link, with a side of barbed wire, it would have made a fine prison in the Bronx, in winter, as there was no vegetation anywhere. I couldn't do it.

Off I sailed to the Sea Turtle camp, far out on the headland. Remember it's Ramadan and there are not a lot of tourists around. I wasn't set-up for camping and so wanted a place to put my crap, feed me, and rent me a bed, or something similiar. I pulled up to this place to find a poor German Shephard barking in a little run. Very welcoming. After making sure he wasn't just pretending to be enclosed, I got out and went to the reception. Nothing. No one. All there were were some barasti huts, a cute little beach, and a restaurant shaped like a dhow. No one around. I trudge up the gravel path, crunch crunch, and see an Indian guy cleaning but he never looks up or indicates I'm there. So I wonder for a second if he's right, perhaps I'm not, and then push on ahead into the restaurant itself and I am still invisible. This is odd because there is probably not another person for 50 km. Finally another Indian guy comes out of the office, walks up to me, and rather belligerently stares at me. By this time I was irritated, and I knew they could see me, and so I stood there, waiting to see if we'd stand there all night, like the Zoraxes. Finally he grudgingly yes, "Yes, Madam?" By this time I was irate-what did he think I wanted? A glass of Ovaltine? The Ark of the Covenent? A movie pass? As gently as I could, I asked about rooms. "Yes, Madam, we have rooms, only, no food. And the turtles are not here, madam, anyway" There was a big sign in the front warning you that outside food and drink will not be tolerated. And they had no food to serve. "Well," I asked, "where is there food? Is there a restaurant in Ras Al Hadd? Or need I go all the way to Sur?" He was so unwelcoming, and hostile that I think he took great pleasure in telling me that he thought there was food in Sur and whatever, I wasn't going to get anything from him, and I should go elsewhere. Unbelievable. And the whole time, this other guy just endlessly mops.
So khallas. I went to Sur.

On the way, in the sunset, I saw the dhow fishing boats come in and nearly drove over the cliff. I have never seen anything so lovely, so graceful, so utterly fine, as these ships. They are beautiful enough, just existing, but cutting through the water they are fantastic. These dhows became my new zahir--something youbecomes fixated on, something into which the attention goes and goes, sometimes with no respite, until the world shrinks to this only. I have not gotten there yet, but it's my new obsession.

So the next morning I drove in circles until I found the shipyards where one giant seagoing vessel was being worked on by about 20 Bangladeshi craftmen. These ships are built without a plan, and from the outside in, and I don't know where the wood is from, but will guess India. Into the shipyard I drove, bounded out of the car with my camera, and began tresspassing, and climbing over things and all the activities that in America would get you thrown out, or arrested, and told off, and scolded about your safety and lawsuits. Here they just all smiled when they saw how I geeked, and indicated I should climb up the extremely well made ladder up into the ship itself which I did.

I wish I knew enough to even describe what I saw there, but I am useless at building and ships and carpentry. I will post some photos when I return and that will have to suffice. But it was incredible. Oman has taken care to preserve its crafts and is also very famous for its sailors and navigators. These ships cannot be made in many places--I'm sure financially it doesn't make sense, but I was awestruck. No wonder they are so proud of their heritage. It's one of the reasons I love Oman so much: they make things like these ships, and then use them as a fishing fleet. It's not just crafts-lite. They use the things they make here. There is an authenticity that I just love love love. Not that it doesn't exist in America, it certainly does! But here it's the dominant paradigm.

After an hour or so swooning and snapping pictures, I hit the road, sorry to miss the turtle spawning, or turtle harvest, I guess depending on whether you are a tourist or a sea gull. I went on to Nizwa, the town about 180 km south of Muscat and I was completely unprepared. Somehow I got lost entering the town, although that seems unlikely--yet I managed it, and wound up in what must have been a residential area, with villas set within magnificent date gardens, water flowing through the afalaj (little stone irrigation channels that water the whole of Oman, collecting runoff from the mountains and making agriculture possible in much of the Sultanate. Iran has this type of system as well. Very ancient.)

The Falaj Daris Hotel is wonderful, absolutely gorgeous, in the way that might call to mind the very best of Palm Springs, with a strong Arabian theme, and no golfcourses. Never mind, it's excellent and the climate is dry and a little breezy and so so sweet. There are two courtyards, with two pools, and trees waving in the breeze, the craggy mountains surrounding, utterly lovely.

The next day I went up Jebel Akhtar--a road so steep there is a military checkpoint at the bottom to make sure you have a 4 x 4 and to order you to put it immediately into 4L. Immediately. And the road was steep. But once I got up to the top, and stopped at the equally lovely Jebel Al Akhtar Hotel (same owners as Falaj Daris,) it was cool and wonderful. (Cool compared to Nizwa, like 85 instead of 100.) There are small villages all around the climate, similiar to the Mediterranean, is perfect for growning fruits and roses! And of course I was there to see the roses, even though this is the wrong season, Oman has a teeny rose industry. Local mountain roses are distilled for rosewater, a special, smoky, bubbly rosewater, made in people's homes. I was also thrilled to note that there is a path, leading between the main fruit and rose growing villages, a footpath and so this is going to be great in April, to watch the picking and distilling. As far as I could tell, there is no other group of people who have ever come for the Omani rose harvest.

After this I took another road, even higher into the mountains, and came across a farm, with entry strictly prohibited, and patrolled by (sleepy) armed guards, who either wouldn't tell me what they were growing or didn't understand my fractured Arabic when I woke them up and then, at the very top, a wonderland of Juniper, Wild Olive, and Oak. For as far as the eye could see, undulating hills of rock, with the oldest, hugest, and sweetest alpine juniper I have ever seen.

It's gets better and better here.

Ramadan Dining

My friend Mohammed is completely delightful--I have broken the Ramamdan fast with his family several times and so, the other day, when he asked if I'd like to go to the beach and eat with his friend, well, of course I'm up for it.
I go and get him at his house and off we trundle to the beach. There is no development to speak of on the Salalah waterfront except for a couple of tea shops so it's picnic time, and we drive up to a group of about 30 guys jumping around and yelling. Alarmed, I hissed "your friend?" at Mohammed and he just started laughing. It's rather unusual for women to join men like this, and certainly not in a non-family context but they were all charming and so very friendly.

As soon as I sat down on the big mats they had thoughtfully put on the sidewalk, everyone started pushing food on me, even before it was time to eat! The sun was not down quite yet but with all the food surrounding me I felt like a kid building a fort in the living room out of couch cushions. It was my own Maginot Line of sambusas (samosas,) falafals (pakoras,) little fried round thingies, some thick porridge thing the consistancy of poi, and eaten the same way, by the fingerful, made from "something like wheat" and oil, melon, watermelon (they still have seeds in watermelon here,) little honey bakhlava things, fried potatoes, green coconut flesh, all wiggly and white, etc etc. Everyone kept scolding me for not eating enough although I ate enough to make me stagger and waddle and I still had dinner to deal with at 9:30, three hours away, and a most refined dinner it was. Fortunately someone gave me a shisha to smoke as we ate.

First, though, the breaking of the fast is tiny cups of bitter black coffee, and then a date or six. Then the food starts and meanwhile all these guys are jumping up to pour water all over themselves in preparation to pray and all of a sudden I'm sitting on the mat alone while these 30 guys take the other mats, line up together, face Mecca and pray. Then it's back for more food and plenty of smoking. Then all of a sudden it's over--time to take the remnants and go get ready to go to the mosque. Eat, Pray, Eat, Pray. Not a bad way to spend the evening.

I race off to the Crowne Plaza, one of the hotels where the April group will stay. The situation is lovely, it's right on the beach and Edward, the General Manager, is besotted with frangipani trees so he is planting more and more of these everywhere. There is a restaurant right on the beach, just at the sands edge, and floodlights face out, onto the ocean, whitening the foam of the crashing waves and wings of night flying seabirds.

The other guests present were ministers, past and present, people who are referred to as "Your excellency." Bring American, I have never met an excellency but they are so very pleasant and elegant. I tried to smoke my rose flavoured shisha in a refined way, but one of these gentlemen had to even show me how to walk in my Salalah style dress as I made a hash out of it. Long, flowing and loose, usually women wear an abaya over them; the back trails, theoretically to erase footprints as one walks gracefully through the sand. But once again, being American, the best I can say is that I tried, with limited sucess perhaps, to embody elegance. We picked at boiled almonds and tender apricots as well as cheese, the first I've seen since I left America. And were finally served grilled local fish, hammour, steamed vegetables, and mashed potatoes. Again I staggered and waddled, but this time with better posture.

I left the next day, sadly, and have resided in the capital, Muscat, for 2 nights now. It's tremendously odd, this neighbourhood, full of Europeans and Indians and not too many Omanis, but I have reneted a 4 x 4 and tomorrow will flee east to Sur, where the shipyards are, and then on to Ras al Jinz, to watch the sea turtles come onshore and lay their eggs.

Salalah Saalam

I'm wrapping up my time here in Salalah--keep putting off leaving. It helps that Oman Air is completely relaxed about flights out. You can change the date as much as you like, no charge, and you don't even have to tell them before the flight. You can just miss your flight and mosey in a few days later and change the date yet again and they will just smile and say ok, sure.

After a couple of weeks in Salalah it all boils down to sitting around smoking the shisha with new friends and lots of conversation. I am lucky enough to be a foreign woman, so can sit around with the men smoking that shisha, which is a water pipe with lovely scented tobacco--I usually take rose flavour. Women here tend to socialize indoors, at home, and I prefer to be out, obviously, or I wouldn't have come to Salalah in the first place. So it's endless cups of tea, and some jokes, and something to eat, and laughing, and all this at the edge of the sea, which is agitated and dramatic after the monsoon, yet still warm and clean and teeming with life. And the beaches are covered in shells, most of them inhabited by wriggling creatures.

It's Ramadan and most foreigners don't take trips to the Middle East during this, as it sounds too much like privation. So the hotels are empty--and even the entirely pleasant seaside deck at the Crowne Plaza is barely dotted with eaters and smokers. And I am not really fasting--although I keep thinking about it! But Oman is plenty interesting and fun during Ramadan. It follows an almost normal schedule, unlike Yemen, which is deserted all day and only stirs around 8 and then is a great big street party all night long. Omani shops and restaurants seem to stay open a couple of hours later than normal but things are open in the day as well. And since it's still normal to take a siesta time here, although they don't call it that, the hours are not quite so different as one might imagine. The afternoons are a bit long, and things pick up again around 5, when the bustling starts, and cars appear, and the supermarkets are crowded with families lugging food home to break the fast.

At 6:30 it's time to eat a date or two and then many people pray, and then come back to eat more, and relax and then go to the mosque about 8 pm. I've been quite lucky to get invited several times to the house of my delightful friend Mohammed, to break the Ramadan fast. Last night I ate far too much as Mohammed was showing me the exact correct way to make a bite-sized ball of rice and then I was racing around the food asking how to say things like Helen Keller when she learned what w-a-t-e-r was. And suddenly Mohammed was looking aghast at me, as I had only eaten a few bites of the jello trifle dessert he had so proudly made, a shocked and astonished "Why you don't eat?" and "You've eaten nothing!" like he somehow expects me to hide it all away in a separate stomach. But this is just Arabic hospitality. It's normal to press food on you generously, and everyone eats together on the floor, out of common bowls. Actually, my first night there I was given a plate but was happy to not receive one last night. Then everyone watches a tv program such as Dr. Phil.

I have learned that Mormons have been travelling to Salalah for years now as they are convinced that their prophet passed through here from Yemen, and Brigham Young University is excavating somewhere nearby. The also have a special interest in Khor Rori, the old frankincense port reputed to be an old center of magic but here my understanding gets hazier and I will have to defer to the future.
But I never would have guessed that the Mormon church had a close relationship with the Sultanate. I guess it's not that odd, really.

I have been putting together some ideas for a trip here next year, in April. I hope to bring a group. It will be rather expensive but hopefully not prohibitively so. I would love the opportunity to share one of my favourite places in the world with others who have an interest and may appreciate it too.

The ABCs of Frankincense

This is the best explanation I've gotten.
Omani frankincense, widely regarded as the best in the world, even by those Somalis who harvest it, comes from Dhofar, as we know. But I've been wandering around demanding "Howjary" which as we all thought we knew, is the best.
And as usual, I believed in an over-simplistic formula.

There are two main areas here--Nedjdi frankincense comes from the desert, where it's dry. In practical terms this means the Mountians of the Moon, Wadi Dawkha and Raysut. Nedjdi frankincense comes from both male and female trees, and each of these is divided into 3 basic grades, based on the season.

Dthakla is the green one--green and white is the best, green and gray the second best (these are both from male trees) and the brown or brown-gray is less--this is from a female tree. Any green dthakla, which is a type of nedjdi, can be taken internally--the best way to to leave a tear in a glass of water overnight and drink in the morning for stomach disorders.

Howjary comes from the humid areas--the well known mountinas behind Hasik and Hadbeen. Again, male and female trees, and I think 3 grades of each but am not yet sure about this. Howjary contains more oil as a rule, so is presumably better than nejdji for distilling for the essential oil. Nedjdi has very little essential oil. The 1st grade of Howjary is good for burns as it is cooling, and can be applied directly, while soft, or crushed a bit.

Both Nedjdi and Howjary smell good when burning and they are both quite costly!!

The Fanatic

Is me. I'm a fan of Oman, even a bit of a fanatic. It's quite silly, even, it's almost nerdy, particularly in the face of riotous gabbering Lebanese working here, stuck working here, and counting the minutes until they leave, for Salalah is poor in nightclubs, not a lot of action, not very exclusive, there isn't much alcohol, and the social life is mostly sitting around smoking the shisha, drinking tea and eating. Suits me fine though, and despite themselves, even those Lebanese find themselves talking about how nice it is here. Not a good word, perhaps: nice. But suitable among many others.

I am a fan of the Sultan, His Majesty Sultan Qaboos. I believe the people here just call him Qaboos though, in the style of the Gulf. In 1970 Oman was little more than desert with some villages here and there. No infrastructure, no education for girls and almost none for boys, dismal in every way, truly primitive. Qaboos, educated in the UK, was kept under palace arrest, here in Salalah, for 10 years I think, under orders of his father, the previous Sultan.

Qaboos took the Sultanate from his father in 1970, and made a huge effort to develop this country in a good way--to educate the population, to encourage Oman's growth, and over all, to engender a climate of respect, for people and the environment. Strict controls such as these could only exisit in a country like this one, where a single man has sway over all, and I can hear my fellow countrymen crying foul, that I advocate dictatorship over democracy, but sometimes I think everything is not as clearcut as one might think. It's not an either/or. And there are many countries in the world where the president, or field marshall has absolute power, and a hired security detail of thugs, but this is not the case here at all.

When Qaboos is in town, he drives himself around, stops the car and talks to people, asks what they want, if they need anything. And in return he has the love and respect of his people, borne out in tiny security details outside the palace. I think that the Omani government is actually a government that cares about more than self-enrichment. Incredible to believe I can write such a thing, but it appears to be the case.

There is something so pleasant, so kind, even innocent and always positive about the people here--I'm sure the opposite exist, but the Omanis themselves just seem happy, well adjusted and normal friendly people. I think this is some kind of abberation, here. We are out at the edge of the world almost, not in the wild way of the west coast of Africa but just out where time marches differently, and the pace of life is slow, and the most important things are not related to commerce.

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I was an electronic disaster today--sometimes this happens. My camera lost the screen--then the blackberry broke and must be replaced, and then the atm machine ate my card (after business hours) giving me no money, and just a simple receipt saying, basically: we took your card. please visit your branch. Khallas. So, tomorrow I will visit one of their branches and see if they can fix it because my friend had to give me 3 rials to come and type this blog!

And tonight I went with a couple of Lebanese to a shisha restaurant with a big TV outside. As soon as we walked in, one of them started yelling at the staff to change the station immediatly because he designs stages and sound for television and we had to see the show that he had just put together-broadcasting from Syria. It's like an American Idol but all poetry and all Arab (except Lebanese--who were not allowed to partcipate because "we would ruin everything--all politics.") So what you have is one by one, these poets, Saudis, Bahrainis, Kuwaitis, Iraqis, Yemenis, etc recite their latest poem, with all the passion they can muster, for the ultimate prize of $1,000,000. The contest takes 5 weeks.

Day after day they compete and gradually get eliminated. Tonight it was down to the last 10--the winners of each of their respective countries. All contestants are basically dressed the same. The hostess is a beautiful Syrian woman with a wonderful clear voice, dressed in a long yellow party dress and glittering with sparkles. One by one the poets are announced, with great fanfare, and they begin, holding the mike in right hand and gesticulating with the left, looking up for the help of God, and the content of these poems is often quite similiar, why each country is the best, how Saudi Arabia for example invented everything and spawned civilization. "What is the word in English for the creature who lives on the blood of another?" asked a Lebanese-Mexican at my table, "Parasite?"

As the poem grows in passion, the event logo superimposes on his face--it's a complicated script design in the shape of a horse. You can probably only do this with the arabic alphabet. And you can just feel the tension. The music crescendos and the poem is brought to a very climactic finish and boom! Up jumps the poet, and the other poets run over and everyone jumps into each others arms in a huge bear hug, and there is plenty of kissing, and then we fade to horses running through a stream in the sunset. And that just about sums it up. It's so exciting it's like horses, wild horses, running. Wild running horses is the only way to express the excitment and esteem in which we hold these poets.

5 weeks of this. 3 times a week for a couple of hours per night. And that's not even Oman. Oman is even more ridiculous (and I mean ridiculous in the most and most lovely way.)

Oman has bullfighting. Bull against bull. These are Ferdinand bulls, not fighting bulls, they are pampered pets who can bring their owners esteem and respect. 2 bulls are put in a ring. They snort and posture at each other until one runs away. That's it. And no betting allowed.

I Never Sang For my Father

We used to call him "The Big." That was even the name that wound up on his death certificate. Ralph The Big Harris. Sweet. He died in 1992 which was before the internet even. Yes, it was.
I think I just wrote something about him in one of the last posts. Amazing and shocking to realize it's 15 years since he died.
But with Pavarotti dead this week as well, it brings to mind my father, for he was an Italian in every way that mattered, and loved Italian opera, and Luciano Pavarotti was his favourite tenor.
As he lay dying I played only the operas of Puccini in his ear--La Boheme, Tosca, Madama Butterfly and Gianni Schicchi--O Mio Babbino Caro.
I saw Signore Pavarotti once, singing Andrea Chenier at the Met in New York. That must have been 1998. He stood there and sang, with that voice like none other--he didn't dance, he didn't act, he didn't do anything other than stand there and sing and it was the first time I have seen something like this. He voice, rich, sonorous and delicate, hit you right in the heart.

I'm away in the world, trying to find things and research them, and buy them, and write about them, but instead I'm finding that we just end to follow ourselves around--you can only leave yourself behind until a certain point and then you've got the whole thing with you like leg irons.

India was of limited success--I found a couple of things we needed, and others were not available and I found out about how some other things are no longer available and how "the cheating man" works. I ate some really good food with my friend Mohammed, but India takes more time than I had this time and so I will go back and poke my nose around to get to the bottom of a few questions I have; that will be in the new year when I can spend some time. I did manage to pick up the African incense though, at least. But for some reason all the airport security has a hard time with it. I have indigo chunks from Morocco and it freaks them out on the x-ray every time. And one of the chunks of churrai looks enough like a grenade to scare me for a second when they pulled over to have a look. And this is the fairly reasonable Middle East so whether or not the Americans will stand for it remains to be seen.

And now I am here in Oman again, in lovely Salalah, overcast and green, still soaking from the monsoon khareef. The frankincense has come and more is coming from the mountains of Dhofar, and the green one, the one you take for stomach troubles, is available now. It's seasonable. But so far, no breakthroughs. No one is distilling the oil here in Salalah--I think they do in Muscat--I used to buy it there, but never saw the still--it could have been re-imported from France.
So what I'm basically doing is sitting around, going to smoke the shisha tonight with my Lebanese friend Miled, but usually eating at the Hadramawt restaurant in the frankincense market, drinking tea with my Omani friend Mohammed, sitting around talking; that's life here. But I'm a little stir crazy I guess, and things just don't progress fast enough for me. As much as I try to slow down, for the Arabic lifestyle will take its time, no matteer what your plans, no matter how relaxed I try to become, it's a bloody struggle.

So tomorrow I will take some photos of the same frankincense trees I took photos of in March, but this time they will be prettier and greener and then I will go and see the lost city of Ubar and then take stock again.

I keep looking for my father everywhere. And every once in a while I think a man has some of him inside. But that's just my wish. Really, the world without him looks exactly like I imagined it to.