Cows, Bees, Sage and a Smoke!

I’m here in New York now, enjoying the -11 C/ + 11 F weather. Actually, let me put it this way: I am enjoying being inside my apartment, with the heat on, and not being outside in that terrible clear cold air where the steam from buildings and street vents looks as solid as the buildings themselves, like Jinn over the Siberian steppe.

I’m not one of those people who “miss the seasons” when I’m away. I’m from California, where seasons are subtle. Here in New York, where every season hits you over the head like a brick, of course I like fall and spring, who doesn’t? I don’t even mind summer too much. And a little winter is fine, but the key is “a little.” To me that means December. Not January. Not February. Not March. Not even April. There will be no end to my kvetching while I’m in this ice hell.

But even though I am here, I still have a few things to say about honey and ghee and tobacco and sage in Salalah. I started to write this, got distracted, and want to finish the thought now.

We all know cigarettes are bad. There is just no way to pretend otherwise. Probably the main reason for this is the 200 or so other chemicals that go into one little wasteful smoke. So, what about shishas? I do like my shisha I have to say. Nothing beats sitting around for a few hours, hanging out with friends, drinking some highly spiced tea, or a nice fresh lemon and mint juice, and smoking away. Personally, I prefer mint shisha, and grape, rose, double apple, strawberry and even melon are all popular as well. But there is a campaign now against shishas. Apparently one shisha is the equivalent of 2 packs of Marlboros. Don’t know if that’s true, but I’m sure if you take all that smoke in, you are altering something for sure. And there’s no use pretending the shisha tobacco mix is natural. It may not have formaldehyde but it’s got a bunch of scary stuff.


So I decided to go with a pipe. We have very cute little wooden pipes here, reminiscent of Mauritania, and little plastic jars of fresh tobacco grown here in Oman, in the Batinah. My friend bought me one, and there I was, smoking away contentedly. You can bet I’m the only woman in Salalah to smoke a pipe in public. After some time like this, and trying to ignore my scratchy throat, the same friend who bought me the pipe says you know, that tobacco is mixed with henna! Try mine!

His was very nice indeed so off we went to the date man in the Haffah souq, who also has fresh tobacco leaves and pipes behind his date cartons. I ended up with 5 fresh tobacco leaves, which I dried in the sun on my roof for the next couple of days. Crumbled nicely, they fill enough jars for me to be set with tobacco for months to come, should I need it, and my scratchy throat went away. And I can be assured that there are no additives! I think they are less addictive than cigarettes for sure, of course. I easily put them away a while ago and don’t feel any pull toward smoking. But it’s nice to know it’s there!

In early November I came home with a virulent little infection I picked up in Yemen. Even though I didn’t like it, the feeling was not mutual. It apparently adored me and held on for a month, snuggling into my lungs, creating havoc with my white blood cells, toying with my inner temperature control, and generally enjoying itself throughout my body while I tried everything to evict it, to chase it out, burn it out, poison it out, the usual. I am not sure what eventually worked but the sage tea they forced on me at Maestro was certainly the most pleasant and I want to say the most effective, although that might be wishful thinking.


If asked whether I liked sage before I would have said yes but truthfully, I never really drank it as an herbal infusion. Americans will call this “sage tea” but there is no tea in it, it’s just sage. But it’s made like tea, so perhaps that’s why. I can get enthusiastic about this sage, though, because it is exactly the right thing to drink on a winter night, or evening, or even in the mid-afternoon. You can just feel the calm lethality of this no nonsense herb checking the IDs of each cell, and booting out the nasty little microbes. There is just something so damn competent about sage. And it tastes divine. Sometimes it’s easy to overdo sage when cooking, as it easily becomes overwhelming, but as a drink, a tea, an herbal infusion, whatever, it’s unsurpassed. I finally found it at Reez, loose, in a bag (not in teabags.) If you don’t know Reez, it’s opposite HSBC main branch on Salaam Street. They have everything to do with tobacco, snack foods including chocolate, and good coffee.



On the advice of my friend Salim, I went to see Mussalam the honey man. He has an interesting beehive supply and honey shop, although I got the last bottle of velvet jebel honey. He showed me the honeycombs, and how they are spun to remove the honey, and I will delve more into this the next honey season because there was not too much to do at the moment. Mussalam speaks no English at all which is great for me because both his place and the wild and amazing place he took me sparked a million questions and I had to do it all in Arabic. In “Darijzh” actually, which is a poor spelling of “local language.” There is no better motivation for me to really exert myself and my considerably less than adequate language skills, but that is how one learns. I can’t remember the name of this beehive central, but it is on Airport street across from the Dhofar Hotel.



Now, the wild and amazing place he took me. Just a couple of streets over is Al Jawhara for Honey and Herbs. I didn’t even get to the herbs part—they probably have that great sage, but it’s like a Farmer’s Market in that origin is paramount. There is honey from all over Oman and then further categorized: jebel honey, acacia honey, frankincense honey. Yes, that was correct, frankincense honey. I have seen those hives for years near the Old Lady trees near Mughsayl, but no one could ever point me at the honey itself. It’s made from the frankincense tree flowers, and these poor guys don’t know it yet but they will have an extra face around at the next honey gathering.

All over Oman and Yemen people talk about the great honey and in the same breath that they ask if you’ve tried the Dhofar/Hadramawt honey, they tell you that it’s all adulterated but they have a friend who might have some and they will check and that’s the end of it. This place was honey heaven. If you don’t want Dhofari honey, then perhaps another…Yemeni? Egyptian? Saudi? I am a total freak sucker for origin of things. There is endless fun to be had at Al Jawhara.


Try the Ghee, they said. It’s in the usual Vimto bottle, like the honeys. Never have I smelled anything like this ghee and I bought just for the smell. I have never cooked with ghee in my life, but I’m going to try it. This has about as much in common with the canned stuff you find in Lulus as the sad little jars of “Australian” honey just down the aisle has with the wildflower mountain honey at Al Jawhara. I forgot to take a picture of it before I left Salalah, but if you are there, then just toddle on in to Al Jawhara and try their local cow ghee and honey!

Once I get back, Inshallah, I’ll be writing a lot more about gifts from Cows and Bees!

Don't Be Offended!

One of the things I love so much about this place is how people are so tuned in and aware of their surroundings. That includes how people interact with each other. I have had an entire complex conversation about frankincense distillation without actually saying a word. But there is one aspect that just stymies me, and really it’s difficult.

First of all, people here are very high maintenance. I mean that in the best possible way, but they are. It’s terribly easy to cause offence. I think it’s the same in the west but here it’s just like walking a tightrope. I don’t know how it is for other people, but I am expected to make contact every few days. With everyone. Usually I can manage this, and when I don’t then I get scolded but I think this part is normal. I think the Omanis scold each other all the time for this.

The kicker is that you cannot ignore someone if you see them in public, or people think you’ve seen them. Then you come off as arrogant or maybe worse. Now, I have no intention of ignoring anyone, ever, especially here, where it’s a capital offence. I like the constant greetings and courtesies that so many Omanis complain about having to do. I’m a New Yorker so it’s fun and pretty to me. But my eyes are not as good as people’s eyes here. I am beginning to suspect that Omanis (and Yemenis,) have some supernatural eyesight. How else are people already staring at the car before I even pass them? How else can someone spot me in the back of a store as they drive past it? How else can someone notice an oddly placed rock out of millions in the mountains?

My eyes are not so great, visually speaking. I can see, just passably, and I don’t technically have to wear glasses, but along with my ever-increasing age, 15 years in New York have made my eyes experts in self defense and they avoid taking in almost everything before it even registers in my brain. And my visual perception is not enhanced in a place where, if I peer closely at men, it is seen as a come on. I have to look at things in a general way. I don’t sit and stare at men’s faces, and since I cannot recognize them quickly, I never notice people.

Not only that, but my ears are worse. I can’t tolerate noise anymore, and block out as much of it as I can. Again, New York has honed this skill. Plus, in most countries, including this one, there is a constant stream of horn honking, cat calls, and other remarks aimed at my person. All ignored. I mean, why in the hell would I bother to look at some yokel honking his horn? I don’t in New York, and I don’t here. I don’t think a car horn is a valid means of communication. And it’s usually just some fool wanting me to look anyway.

So even though I engage with my surroundings an astounding amount here, for me, I just do not see anything close to the amount an Omani would. That means that I don’t see such-and-such standing in the back of the restaurant, I don’t see so-and-so as he’s driving by. And what’s worse, unless you actually use my name, I won’t look at you, no matter how much shrieking or honking or waving you do. Because if I do look, and it’s not someone I know, then it’s, quite logically, someone I don’t know, and the fact that I’ve made enough eye contact to establish that I don’t know them, makes them now feel entitled to come over and give me a note or ask for my phone number, or otherwise feel invited. And in Salalah this means there is now an entire situation to get out of, politely.

Strangely, this in itself doesn’t irritate me. I meet plenty of men. But the reason I am writing about it is that, by now, I have managed to insult quite a few people! Usually, I think, they will tell me, at some point, and smiling like it’s no big deal at all, how I ignored them, and then I have to explain that I don’t see that great, that I can’t look at men too closely, surely they understand, because you know how men are, other men I mean, and this usually explains it well enough for the injured party’s satisfaction. But not everyone will do this! There are a few people, now, who I know I have offended, because, when I send those staying-in-touch text messages, they don’t reply. Maybe I sat in the same restaurant and didn’t recognize them, I don’t know, but I know I did something bad. And I don’t know who! And I don’t know what! And I don’t know when! I guess I’m offended too!

The other night I was barreling down the beach road past Al Hosn Palace at 2:30 am, with a Land Cruiser hot on my heels. Whoever it was pulled up alongside me twice, waving wildly. At least he appeared to be waving wildly. His windows were really dark. There was no way to tell who he was. I suspect he was someone I knew, but I can’t even guess who. Eventually I think he figured out I didn’t recognize him and turned off somewhere but not before we enjoyed a high speed chase. Maybe he’s offended.


Pity the poor American with her sub par visionary skills! I didn’t mean to ignore you! I didn’t mean to offend you! Even if we’re very good friends I probably didn’t see you! And I can also mention that here in Oman, most men wear a dishdasha and something on their head. So it’s even more difficult. I know Omanis can look at a large group of men, all dressed basically the same, and instantly see each one individually. But I can’t do it. Not only that, but Omanis recognize cars. Californians will not consider this odd but New Yorkers will. And not only that, but they recognize license plates. Most cars here are either Land Cruisers, usually white, and “small cars” like Toyota Yaris, Echo, Camry, or Sunny. Almost all cars are white as well. It astounds me when someone knows I’m somewhere from my car, which looks, to me, like every other car. I can’t even find my own car in the Crowne Plaza parking lot half the time! And it’s a very small lot, only holds about 40 cars! But I’m always putting my key in the wrong door, and any Omani will think I’m really off my nut because I drive a Sunny and I might try a Yaris!!! New Yorkers will not know what this means, but the two are almost identical. I have even had Omanis tell me they saw my car in the parking lot somewhere as they drove by.. This is unbelievable to the point of nuttiness. But they are always right. Needless to say, I don’t know my own license plate either, even though it’s on my key ring and I think it has an 8 in it. Or maybe a 5.

I might was well confess……it’s not just the vision and not wanting to focus. I have never had an easy time with features. I am more inclined to remember smell, Or how someone sounds. I have always had a problem keeping actors apart in a movie and need to see it two or three times before I get what’s happening. Some people say they don’t remember names but never forget a face. Wish I could say the same but I forget faces too. I remember people’s energy, to put it in a new age way, but the face? No way. I never understood how people were attracted to each other by looks, for example. I can’t look at a picture of someone and deduce their sex appeal. I have to interact. I also cannot recognize celebrities, with very few exceptions. Steven Tyler comes to mind yet it was aided by the people around saying “Look! It’s Steven Tyler!” but at least I was able to see which one he was.

Unfortunately for me, I have made my new home in a place where recognizing people and acting appropriately and politely are indispensable skills. Maybe getting scolded all the time is one thing that attaches me to Salalah.

Bad eyesight? Poor memory? Good self defense skills? Complete self indulgence? Too many chemicals? Or just not a good visualizer? It’s just the way it is.

The other thing I get scolded for a lot, or even if not scolded exactly, looked at in such a way that I feel guilty immediately, is time. I know Arabs are known for their non-attachment to time but with one or two exceptions, the people I know are reliably 15 minutes early for every appointment. Picking me up at 8 are you? You can bet that phone is going to ring at 7:45. “I’m outside.” Every time. Shall we meet at the coffee shop in an hour? 30 minutes later the phone rings. “I am waiting for you.” Back in the days of my sponsor, if he said to meet him at 5 and I would come waltzing in at 10 past, completely unconcerned, he would give me a long searing look, then an equally long one at his watch, then another look at me. “I said 5 o’clock. Not 10 after 5. Is this normal? You must respect time! ” Seriously. I am apparently the only westerner to have this happen though. But in my experience New York is exactly how they say the Arab world is. People either don’t show at all, or call 90 minutes after they’re due to say they’re running late. But no one will ever believe this so why try and explain it?

Best Food in Salalah?

I am talking about none other than Dharma’s Sri Lankan Paradise Cafe. Please note that any restaurants I mention in Salalah are renamed by me, usually because their name is either unknown, non-existent, or replicated many times around town. My names are descriptive and logical; you’ll see.

Dharma is a Sri Lankan native who has been in Salalah for nearly 20 years. I think he is probably the best cook in town. Them’s fightin words, I know. Or maybe not.
Usually when I wax rapturously about a restaurant I describe my meal. Sadly, here I cannot. It’s pointless. But I will try a little. Hoppers, which are Sri Lankan noodles. Had those. A dal, kind of sort of. So light it floated off the table. Subtle and delectable yet highly spiced. It melted into my hoppers and came with a side of some grated coconut, fresh and absurd, nectar. He brought me “tuna” as well. Even though I like tuna, it bore no resemblance to any tuna I have ever had. Scorching curry with bell peppers. It’s useless.

Obviously, everything is fresh and made in the moment. I never understand anything he tries to describe, but it doesn’t matter, I get it when I get it, so to speak.

If you are lucky enough to be in Salalah, then come here. If you don’t know it, it’s near the Grand Mosque, off 23rd July, behind the wall on your right as you’re heading west. First right after the wall. Then right again and it’s on the left next to a laundry with the Pakistani guys sitting out in front. It’s hidden. Just go in and ask what he has. There is no menu. You probably won’t understand what he tells you anyway. Don’t get bossy. Don’t get fussy. Don’t try to run the show. Don’t pretend you know anything. Just say yes to whatever he suggests and sit down outside if there’s room—there’s only 2 tables and 1 inside. And it’s adorable, with plants and little ornament things. There is a sign but so small you have to be actually sitting at the tables to see it. Fairy lights hang on the front, in the little garden. He makes great ginger tea. And milky spiced tea.

I have had quite a few different things here and always it’s fantastic. And very different from anything else you get in Salalah. Other people I’ve been with have had meat or chicken things and they are always rapturous. If you like spicy hot he will dazzle you, but it never loses flavor to heat.

Dharma”s Sri Lanka Paradise Cafe is open until from 4:30ish to 10 or 11, although it may be later. Closed on Fridays.
His gsm is 9524 1891