A Day Out

Catherine Lonie

I was invited to spend the day in the country with an ex-student. An early start and ninety minutes driving on good roads led me to the ancient town of Nizwa. Directions were concise, forty kilometres from Nizwa you come to the World Heritage city of Bahla, which is famous in Oman as the home of witchcraft and sorcery. Another forty and you arrive at the meeting point, Kebara.

The fast dual carriage-way skirts the mountains that loom like a menagerie of surreal animals, rocks shaped like monsters or dinosaurs alternately threaten and amuse.

Soon, I meet Abeer, her father, two brothers and many cousins; a 4x4 full of smiles all Omanis seem to have wonderful smiles.

As we scrambled up a hill to view some famous Bronze Age tombs sitting on a ridge like a row of humpty dumpties, a group of French tourists took advantage of the sight of a middle aged woman in walking boots surrounded by group of young Omanis - cameras clicked and whirred.

The next stop was an abandoned village, with the lyrical name of Musalala. Hidden deep in a fertile valley in the mountains, it had been destroyed by tribal warfare long ago. Here, we found an old cemetery with graves and tombs scattered among trees such as the Shua whose oil is used to treat symptoms as diverse as headaches and labour pains. People in this area still use traditional medicine to treat both humans and livestock. The production and sale of such medicines also provides an income for elderly widows who have no other means.

When we returned for lunch, the family matriarch, Abeers paternal grandmother, Moza, introduced herself. A tiny, frail looking woman with bright eyes and enormous confidence, she joined me in the womens majilis or drawing room and we sat on fine old carpets, and talked; gesturing and miming when language failed.

Moza is of the generation of Omani women who had small families; only two of her fourteen children survived infancy. Before 1970 there were no oil revenues which finance Omans present day extensive national health service.

Moza nowadays spends her days lavishing care on a small flock of goats, two cows and some chickens. When she isnt tending the animals, she socialises, carrying a thermos of coffee and the latest news between friends and neighbours.

The younger women hurried in and out, laying a plastic tablecloth over the carpet followed by a large round tray mounded with rice and what looked like half a lamb. Salad leaves dressed simply with fresh lime, a dish of fish in a sauce, raw and cooked vegetables and the ever present dates subsequently followed and we all sat round to eat. The family had thoughtfully provided cutlery but in my habitual practice of floundering in where angels fear to tiptoe I volunteered to do it in traditional style and use my right hand. The other women managed it all very gracefully, scooping rice delicately between the fore and index finger and thumb. I got rice everywhere. It is customary to eat the rice from the place immediately in front of you and I envied the neat little caves which appeared in the rice mountain before the other lady diners. Fruit and fragrant Omani style black coffee flavoured with cardamom and served in tiny cups ended the feast.

After lunch the women and children set out to show me their old house. The shady walk along the falaj (irrigation channel) incongruously reminded me of childhood walks in the Scottish countryside. A large group of children with accompanying aunts, grannies and mothers, chattered along beaten earth paths fringed with fragrant plants. I felt secure and content in the company of these women who until a few hours ago had been strangers. Every person we met acknowledged us, calling Salam Aleykoom, (peace be upon you.) Soon we turned off the path into a date plantation and there it was, a tall, crumbling mud house warrened with small rooms. I wondered if they missed living in the peace and simplicity of this cool greenness, centuries removed from the air conditioned splendour of their present home.

The peace did not last long however as a brassy voice rang out through the palms and a small wiry woman exploded into laughter as she saw us; Come on - have coffee from me, she demanded rather than invited.

Hajer, a widow, lives with her children and mother in a tiny concrete house overflowing with beds. The house was cool, shaded as it was, by some of the many varieties of date palms in this garden. Talking in a breathless, wired-up stream of Arabic and English, she told us how she is studying computer and English in ladies-only afternoon school sessions.

Traditionally, the production of a tray laden with bottles of perfumes of all shapes and sizes, signals the end of a visit to an Omani home. Bottles were wafted under my nose, Do you like this? This? Try this one. Lusciously heavy oil-based fragrances were dripped from glass wands onto my wrists and finally the bakhoor, a small pottery, container of perfume-dredged chips of smouldering sandalwood was held under my skirt hem while everyone nodded indulgently. The portents were good when the perfumed smoke drifted through the fabric of my skirt; Hajer nodded sagely and assured me my relations with my mother-in-law must be good, this was a sign. I felt pleasantly dopey as we wafted out the low doorway on a cloud of scented smoke.

Later that night before I left, we all sat in the courtyard under a tree laden with oranges and watched the sky fill with stars, I was told that when the electricity supply failed, as it often does in the summertime, the entire family lie on carpets in the courtyard and while away the hours, gazing at the stars. That night I had vivid Chagall-like dreams of floating through stars, no not on a magic carpet; but on a tray of rice.