A Crime of Passion

Dubai has been hit with a series of high-profile crimes as of late, most notably the assassination of a Hamas leader purportedly by Mossad. In all this hubbub, you may have missed the lower profile but no less shocking crime below:

MAN CLAIMS FIANCEE HID BEARD UNDER NIQAB

I love how this is filed under "crime"

"You Can Use The Food Court. Downstairs."

This past month has been the most travel-intensive of my short life. Were I to leave a trail like Family Circus' Jeffy, there'd be so many dotted lines across the Middle East you'd think you were back at the Treaty of Paris, carving up the region for the future colonial successes that were the mandate system. By my count, I've been on 14 flights so far this month with another expected four to come. I think March will be a bit tamer.

I don't mind the flying - my body has become attuned to travelling to such an extent that I've developed a Pavlovian sleep response to the {bing} that signals the plane has reached 10,000 feet. The other reason I don't mind flying so much around the region is that we get access to the airport lounges across the Middle East. Instead of mingling with the masses on unsatisfyingly pleather seats, I spent my hours at a free buffet, sipping hibiscus juice and (thank you Kuwait City!) receiving neck massages.

However, I was rudely awakened from my traveler's dream last night flying back through Cairo to Riyadh. I confidently walked up to the desk at the lounge, presenting my member's card. The lady looked at my card, then her gaze shifted to my flannel shirt, torn jeans and Seattle-style sandals+socks combo (no judging). The skepticism in her eyes betrayed her concierge-trained smile. She politely informed me that my card did not allow me in to this particular lounge and pleasantly stated "You can use the food court. Downstairs."

Never have I felt so bourgeois.

Wadi Mayh

I originally planned my Oman trip to be active, and was going to wake up at 5:30 Friday morning to catch a bus out to the eastern province. But I woke up at noon instead. So I took a cab out into the desert, to Wadi Mayh, maybe 30km outside Muscat.

Wadi Mayh and the surrounding mountains. Or, alternatively, Mars cerca 1750 when water still flowed*

Walking through the Wadi was difficult, as the path is a dry river bed. Eventually, it is but human nature to stop. And look up.


And climb.

*This post is not entirely scientifically accurate

Muscat

It is said that Muscat lies on a narrow strip between the Hajar Mountains and the Gulf of Oman. This past weekend I discovered that this was misleading. There is in fact no space between the mountains and the sea. The Muscatis adapt, however, by building their city amidst the small rocky peaks that pop up everywhere.

The picture below is taken down an alley off of Mutrah High Street, one of the main drags. The ubiquitousness of these outcroppings is such that I could have taken and posted one hundred such photos. But that would be tiring.

In stark contrast to the rest of the GCC that I frequent, Muscat is truly an Arab city. The taxi drivers are Omani, people actually walk on the streets and there is, more than anywhere else I've been, a sense of a native culture. I was surprised to learn a few things about Oman:
It used to be a world power giving Britain a run for its money in naval supremacy through the late 1800s, deriving its wealth from its overseas colony of Zanzibar. In fact, the Sultanate split upon the death of one of the sultans, with one son controlling Oman and the other, Zanzibar and the Tanganyikan mainland.
It used to be Portuguese. Conquered for its ports and as a jumping off point to India, the Portuguese built many forts along the coast, a few of which are pictured below. Oman struggled through civil wars in the middle of this past century, adding to Portugal's consistent and enduring legacy of screwing countries over (#Angola, #Mozambique, #East Timor)
While my main goal for the weekend was getting out of cities and into nature for a change, I did wander around the Muscat's Mutrah corniche Friday night:

and saw the sunset over a remaining Portuguese watchtower:

and saw a spaceship land (seriously, I never figured out what that was):

and fought off pirates:

Musings Update

Ha! I'm getting the bearded reaction I was looking for: a higher "assalaam alaykum" to 'awkward shuffle and eye-contact-avoidance' ratio in greetings from Saudis.

With a ghutra and agal I think I could pass. As long as I don't have to say anything...

Musings on a Whiskered Chin

I'm not growing a beard. I remain adamant that one does not "grow a beard." Such a term implies action, whereas the act of growing a beard is undoubtedly passive. I do not stand in front of the mirror, concentrate, and hope to sprout my stubble - nay, its most unencumbered growth occurs while I am unconscious.

This being said, I performed the key action today that separates the lazy from the bearded. I shaved the outline of what a beard could one day grow into. And this sparked immediate, if somewhat hostile reaction, from our office staff...

Jovi, our office host, upon seeing me this morning: "Mr. Nathan, what happened to your face?"
Me: "Got a haircut and haven't shaved in a bit. Do you like it?"
Jovi (in stride): "No."

...and later, by Ibrahim, one of our drivers...

Ibrahim: "Ah sir, I see you are now mutawwa."

Mutawwa = Religious Police, ie:


I'm gonna give this another day and if I get the same chiding its straight to the barber.