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Photographs and text via Noa Avishag Schnall
I can tell lightly where the salt ended and the sky began.
I was on my way to Masirah, Oman’s largest island, when the surrounding land turned into a huge salt desert. On board, near the road, two Bangladeshi employees were ankle-deep in the aggregate of liquid and minerals, pushing the salt flakes. in pyramid-shaped heaps. I also waded, the horizon blurred through an orange-pink mist.
I finally managed to get on the ferry and, after more than an hour at sea, arrived in Masirah. I started driving along the west coast of the island in the shape of a bow tie, hoping to succeed at its southern end at sunset, for a while. distance of about 40 miles. The more they gave me from the port, the fewer people I saw, until, pulling the sand of Bu Rasas beach, there was no one left. With the trunk of my SUV. open to the sea, emitting the only light in miles, I can hear the little creatures on the shore rushing near the water’s edge.
Alone, along the boundaries between the sand and the sea, I had reached the end of my hike.
Last December, 3 months after the Sultanate of Oman lifted its Covid-19 restrictions, I flew from my home in Paris to the southern city of Salalah, intending to explore the entire sea coast of Oman from south to north.
For the next 3 weeks, I would cross the edge of the Arabian Peninsula alone, traveling over 2600 miles, improvising camps, doing off-roading with mediocre success, loading my rented car on ferries to succeed on remote islands, passing army checkpoints, and finally conquering the northern tip of Oman and the waters of the Strait of Hormuz, one of the most debatable and geopolitically monitored waterways in the world.
When he evokes photographs of the Arabian Peninsula, whose population bears the pan-Arab term “khaleeji,” the Sultanate of Oman may not be the first country to come to mind. Saudi Arabia’s presence globally has been dominant in recent years. years; the United Arab Emirates and Qatar have left political and cultural traces at the international level; and the whole world watched in horror as the ongoing civil war unfolded in Yemen.
And yet, Oman has maintained its reputation as an impartial and quiet place, serving even during the Obama administration as a channel for U. S. -Iran nuclear talks. The country has had little repercussion on the external front since the British-backed coup. in the 1970s, when a reformist son deposed his father to become the new sultan. The leader, Sultan Qaboos bin Said of Oman, who died in 2020, reshaped Oman, catalyzing mass modernization and maintaining absolute monarchy.
For me, that relative calm was one of his maximal corneas. This and its exclusive climate. Due to its geographical location, Oman is one of the few countries in the Arab world that delights in the khareef (monsoon) season, which turns the landscape into lush green, floods the mountains with waterfalls, fills the wadis (valleys or river beds) with new water and causes a thick fog to rest over the southern governorates of the country. Actually, Oman has no low season. Khareef is popular with the Khaleejis, and in the winter months the sultanate receives more European and Indian tourists. As I had missed the khareef, it was the best time for a beach adventure.
In my determination to travel the entire coast of Oman, I would give up the interior of Oman, known by the Rub al Khali, or the empty neighborhood, considered to be the largest continuous sand desert in the world and consisting of about 250,000 square meters. miles of uninterrupted sand dunes, stretching across Oman, Yemen, the United Arab Emirates and Saudi Saudita. Et, in a malicious compromise with the entire coast, I drove about 3 hours west of Salalah to the Yemeni border to officially begin the journey.
The road to the border was dangerous, full of repeated curves as the road climbed the Dhofar Mountains. And the quality of the pavement deteriorated significantly as I approached Yemen.
The border crossing near the town of Sarfayt is not very imposing: a makeshift hut of corrugated iron, covered with a camouflage net and yellowish by the sun, with a sand-colored SUV in the shade. Unfortunately, there is no signage. It’s the closest it had been to Yemen since December 2013, a time before the start of the civil war. After talking to his colleagues in the cabin, the guard allowed me to make a U-turn in the no-man’s land between Oman and Yemen. And with that, my adventure had officially begun.
The first thing I did on my expedition north was to have a hot cup of sweet milk tea called karak, an Omani favorite, made with spices, in the closest place I could find. It is particularly colder and windier here in the mountains.
By nightfall, he had reached Fazayah Beach, about 105 kilometers from the border. Wild camping is legal in Oman; one has the right to pitch a tent on any public land. Before picking up my rental car, I asked for the rear rows to be removed, which would give me the opportunity to sleep in the back. That night, I left the trunk open, got into my sleeping bag, listening to the waves. In the morning, the cows walked along the beach while I swam; Later, I waited for them to block the mountain road until I could return to Highway 47.
My adventure unfolded in undulating chapters: Periods of isolation and contemplation were followed by periods of excessive concentration in precarious situations, which then became fruitful cultural exchanges.
On Mughsail Beach, with Mount Qamar peeking out into the distance, shallow puddles of soft blue water accumulated in the sand, as dromedaries or Arab camels of a hump walked along the shore, trimmed through an orange sun. The ropes of a vine called the goat’s feet crisscrossed the beach, with its pink flowers splashing on the sand.
Just as the sun faded into a diffuse haze, a historically dressed couple walked barefoot along the shore, the guy in dishdasha (a tunic with no ankle-length neck) and kuma (an embroidered round cap), and the in abaya (a long black robe). coat) and the hijab.
At the archaeological site of Khor Rori, I met a boy in his forties. We started a conversation, and when he found out that I had Yemeni ancestors, he warmed up with me. I sat with him through some of his cigarettes. .
He fascinated me through my Jewish heritage, said I was the first Jew he met, and asked me to take a picture together. Then, as if I needed evidence of my Judaism, he asked me to write several names in Hebrew, which I did. We exchanged numbers and planned to meet that night for dinner.
After visiting Wadi Darbat, known for its plateau with waterfalls, I drove to Mirbat, where my new friend placed a pin on my phone for percentage of the precise location. He had ordered takeout and we took the bags to the beach, where he placed a mat and sat cross-legged using our right hand instead of utensils, in the classic way. After completing our biryani bird meal, we went out to the rocks where the ocean licked the stones. get wet, find a position to sit comfortably. And then, as old friends, we had a long verbal exchange on a variety of topics, adding religion, while hunting in the sky.
The next day, I stopped for coffee in the bustling village of Sadah. As soon as I sat down, the children of the community playing at a nearby table were intrigued: through my rebellious (and uncovered) hair, my Western (albeit modest) clothing, and my vaguely familiar features. The women waved at me, while the children grimaced and joked loudly, obviously laughing shamelessly at my expense. These exchanges are some of my favorite moments along the way: there’s no unusual language, no inherent gain for either party, just a little wonder all over the place, full of gestures and carefree laughter.
A man dressed in Western garments and his young daughter joined our interaction. He introduced himself as a local of Sadah and advised a place to eat with the most productive view of the city. Asking me to call him Ali, he then said that he was a member of an elite army unit in Oguy.
Ali proposed a trip to Natef Falls, where, as one resident described it, “water gushes out of the mountains like tears. “I bathed in the water, which felt noticeably different from the mornings I spent in the brine.
After cleaning myself, I remembered the verbal exchange we had shared that day. “I’m crazy, you’re crazy,” he said, as we laughed. language skills, that I am a woman who travels alone, a concept that for him is surely crazy, but also brave. He compared it to his profession: parachuting into the army at high altitude, which he knew to be brave and a little unbalanced. (I had noticed videos of his jumps. )
In other words: it is Ali, who gave me a compliment.
A few days later, I left the road in the sugar dunes of Al Khaluf to try to succeed in Bar al Hikman before dawn. Suddenly, my S. U. V. stopped advancing; the wheels turned in the same place, throwing sand in all directions. The car sank into the white clods. I tried in vain to dig myself up, but to no avail. Less than 30 minutes after releasing a pin, two friends from Ali’s unit stopped, barefoot, dressed in dishdashas and massars (embroidered sautomobilef), in a ’90s truck hit in the color of the sand.
Ten minutes later, employing the demonstrated skills of other people who had obviously done this several times before, they pulled my much larger vehicle out of its pit and carried it back to the bitumen. I was introduced to stay in their camp at night. however, he had already taken enough of his time. We said goodbye and, with our hands clasped in pleading as we uttered abundant shukrans (thank you), I was sent on my way. Feeling disproportionately lucky, I discovered a nearby beach with no problems. accessible, spread out in the trunk, and fainted.
The next morning I walked along the beautiful white sand beach, sat in the water, grateful for everything, and looked at the dunes that had almost devoured me the night before.
The further north he traveled, the steeper the terrain became: more stony, less soft. An hour north of the port city of Sur, I passed enchanted by the many small coves that broke the long beach near Bimmah Sinkhole. I admired the massive pieces of brain coral and the way the morning sun reflected the pastel reflections on the stones.
Exactly two weeks after my trip, with only brief interludes of intermittently unforgiving coastal terrain, I parked in a parking area on a perfectly manicured street, covered with sublime palm trees, in an elegant corner of Muscat, the capital of Oman, and walked my fatigue. to a foreign coffee chain.
As governments around the world ease restrictions on coronaviruses, the industry expects this to be the year it comes back in force. Here’s what you can expect:
Air travel. Many more passengers are expected to fly last year, however, you’ll still want to check for the latest access needs if you’re traveling abroad.
During the pandemic, many travelers have realized the privacy that rental residences offer. Hotels hope to be competitive again by offering modern homes for extended stays, sustainable options, rooftop bars and coworking spaces.
Car rental. Travelers can expect higher costs and older cars with the highest mileage, as corporations have not yet been able to expand their fleets. Are you in favor of an alternative? Car-sharing platforms could be a more affordable option.
Despite a bumpy start to the year, thanks to the rise of Omicron, demand for cruise ships remains high. Luxury expedition travel is now all the rage, as they sail on smaller ships and move away from crowded destinations.
Cities are officially back: travelers are eager to immerse themselves in the sights, bites, and sounds of a city like Paris or New York. For a more relaxing time, some resorts in the U. S. U. S. consumers are pioneering an almost all-inclusive style that takes the guesswork out of it. of vacation planning.
Travel features aimed at sexual well-being (think couples’ retreats and oceanfront sessions with intimacy coaches) are very popular. Educational trips, on the other hand, are sought after by families with children.
Hoping to reach the Grand Mosque of Sultan Qaboos, I lost the window for non-Muslims. Instead, I walked through the surrounding gardens. Evening had fallen when I left Muscat for Shinas, a coastal town near the border with the United Arab Emirates. I counted the fuel torches that dotted the sea coast as I continued on my way.
The next morning I discovered an unpretentious coffee for breakfast. The corner shop, open on two sides, let in a much-appreciated breeze. the TV on the ceiling, some flies resting on the plastic tables we all shared. I saw one of the men dip his chapati in his tea, and I did the same. Not bad at all. After the meal, the men used the sink in the middle of the tent and washed their hands and mouth, and then used the fine waxed paper provided through the store to dry themselves. I did the same.
Such cutting shops can be found throughout the sultanate, a staple of communities in a country where foreign personnel, basically from Bangladesh, India and Pakistan, make up a significant component of the population. (In Oman and many of its neighbors, the pandemic has led to the many inequalities that exist in the Gulf states, which rely heavily on migrant labor. )
Regardless, I was able to head to Musandam, the northernmost of Oman’s 11 governorates, which borders the Strait of Hormuz and is separated from the rest of the country by a trail of Emirati land. Musandam has magnificently arid fjords that embrace blue – green bays, jagged mountain levels and coves that reveal small villages accessible only via a boat. The port city of Khasab is a four-hour ferry ride from Shinas, north along the edge of the Arabian Peninsula and around the cape in the Strait of Hormuz.
I left the ferry to pass into town and let interest consult me along the Khasab coastal road, gradually approaching my final destination. Musandam’s mountainous landscapes were intimidating, eclipsing the few houses that were built right in front of them. A road seemed to be turned in the mountains, and I to see where it led.
After about five minutes, the paved road gave way to the earth. I was taken out of the car to take pictures when I heard a guy’s voice calling me and echoing me from across the valley. Looking in the direction of sound, I sensed a figure that told me to approach. It turned out to be an organization of young Oguyi men, who then invited me to sign up for their breakfast, revealing a variety of coffee, karak, tanoor bread (baked in an underground clay). oven), honey and cheese. The house, the land and the herd of surrounding goats belonged to a circle of relatives, and they all visited from their respective homes in the neighbouring Emirates.
That afternoon, I headed to the northernmost point of Oman, or as far as I can go without risking jumping off the road, and gazed at the coast. The waters were falsely serene. I discovered a position to rest among the rocks and reflected on the ancient nature of the sea passage. At only 21 miles wide at its narrowest point, the Strait of Hormuz has been for industry among civilizations for thousands of years.
Recently, about 20% of the world’s oil source has passed through the strait, which is the only way tankers and cargo ships succeed in the Indian Ocean for maritime trade. Tensions at this point of strangulation have led (and continue to lead) to many conflicts.
Admiring the view of the sea from a small park just southwest of the horn, I greeted an organization of women walking on the sand; they answered me. I longed to interact with Omani women, but had experienced very little on vacation, partly because of my limited language skills and the lonely nature of my vacation, and partly because of the confusing gender dynamics in a country with a spectrum of conservatism.
I spoke briefly with a young doctor on the ferry to Masirah, on the deck reserved for families (the other aspect reserved for single men), where we were looking for a clever image of the sunset and joking about our failed attempts. . The verbal exchange was interrupted and she sat down again with her two friends.
At a generic food stand in Khasab, a young women’s organization approached me admiring my camera. I let them hold it and play, which caught the attention of some teenagers looking to practice their English. “You are cute!” they told me with a laugh.
Looking back at those fleeting moments, I’m grateful I had them.
I left Musandam the next morning and returned to the Oman mainland, where I booked a hotel in Muscat and, for the first night in weeks, slept in a bed. . I lay on the bed. I can still feel the smoke emanating from the burnt incense resin, feel the jabal Samhan air on my skin, hear the fluttering of sea turtles’ green fins in the sand.
Noa Avishag Schnall is a visual journalist in Paris. You can keep his paintings on Instagram.
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