sketches of oman, part 2

...by the sea, in the desert.

sketches of oman, part 1

The Mutrah Fish Souq was one of the first places I sketched in Oman, among the heaps of brilliantly coloured fish, and the men who had brought them ashore. Pedro and I ended up spending a good two hours there, sketching portraits of both the fishmongers and their catch. This garnered us a great deal of attention and appreciation— everyone was so nice at the market, that I wish we were able to spend more time there.

The very stern-looking man on the right is Said, better known to his fellow fishmongers as Captain Titanic. He tolerated sitting fairly still for us for a good fifteen minutes, and seemed delighted with his portraits.

a good omen

A wadi is a dried river bed, which can suddenly transform into a torrential channel of mud and water, flooding villages, and anything in its path. On a good day, wadis are excellent places to explore; to find Desert Wheatears perched on rocks, to chase blue-winged butterflies (whose names I must learn), and to discover the skeletal remains of livestock and their predators.



As I readjusted the found turkey feather I had tucked in my hair, there was a flutter of movement out of the corner of my eye. My heart jumped— could it be? I scanned the rocks ahead of us, and locked eyes with an Arabian red fox. I had secretly hoped to see a fox during this trip, but as soon as I could utter the words to alert Pedro and Gil, it hopped over a small boulder, fluffy tail trailing behind. I'm not superstitious, but this felt like a good omen— a wonderful sight on our last day in Oman.



Ma'a salaama, Oman. Shukran.
I hope we meet again.

the edge of both sea and desert

more of that omani flavour

It was Thursday, the first day of the weekend in Oman, and Gil was free to wander with us. We began our morning with some kayaking in the Arabian Sea— which sadly, I have no pictures of, as I feared I would send my camera to a watery grave. The experience was nothing short of magical— the sky, a deep cerulean, met the blue-green sea in a sharp line, that was occasionally broken by the shimmering silver body of a leaping tuna. At first, as it was so quick, I didn't believe my eyes— but then every minute or two, another tuna would rise up into the sky, followed by the less graceful flapping of an acrobatic ray. Rose-ringed Parakeets laughed across the sky, and the rocks to our right held wild pigeons and a couple of herons.

We paddled over to a little cove for a snorkel, which revealed a world of colourful and curious fish, along with one evasive sea turtle. I can't remember the last time I swam in the sea. Surely I've recorded the experience on this blog, but oh how good it felt— the delight of floating in cool, salty water! Upon the rocks, I saw my first mudskippers, and those crabs with the eyes that rest on stalks above their heads— I don't know what they are called, but they were so beautiful.

We reluctantly made our way back to the beach when it was time to return our kayaks, while plotting what we might do with the rest of the day.



While driving along the coast, it was only a matter of time before we found ourselves seated at a little roadside restuarant, where once again, I was the only female— but it didn't seem to matter. Our table was laid with a chart illustrated with fish named in Arabic and English, to which the man serving us pointed to. Everything was good, according to him, but what I wanted was that delicious looking fish the men were digging into at the table behind us— and was that curry?



Though we were kindly offered cutlery, we used our hands, much to the delight of the men at the table to my right. This was, in my opinion, the tastiest meal we ate in Oman. Lime, curry, chili, and goodness knows what spices... but the fish! Oh, the fish. Tender, succulent, and according to the chart, an Emperor. While digesting with a little cup of tea, I pulled out my sketchbook to draw the remains of my feast, which intrigued our neighbours at the table next to us, and won their approval.

Eventually we were called back to the sea, where we negotiated a deal for a boat ride from a wiry man with leathery hands.

blue and white

symmetry and mathematics

The Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque is one of the most impressive mosques I have ever seen— from the outside, at least. Visiting hours for non-Muslims are between 8:30 and 11:00 am, every day except Friday. Sadly, we arrived too late to see the inside, but were allowed to sketch the facade from one of the courtyards— which was an enormous challenge. Architectural sketching is not my forté. Drawing this symmetrical and mathematically perfect work of art, was... difficult. I'll post my attempt soon, along with some other sketches.

The mosque covers a staggering 416,000 square metres, and can hold up to 20,000 people— something hard to fathom. While I can continue to toss numbers at you, I'd rather share what I think is the most wonderful thing about the Grand Mosque: the details. Have a look:



Isn't it gorgeous?

village doors, plateau

It was the elusive Bruce's Scops Owl— a blackbird-sized little thing, which had us standing on the edge of Saiq Plateau near sunset. The heat had no hold on this landscape; I tightly wrapped my blue scarf around my shoulders and arms, cocoon-like, marvelling at the drop in temperature. Before and below me, a wide series of massive rocks and their deep valleys reached the horizon, the only sound a cat, and the whistling wind. We walked down into a small village, where we were greeted by a young man whose teeth gleamed white as he grinned in the fading light.

"Assalaam alaikum."
"Wa alaikum assalaam."

The sun was soon replaced by a giant yellow moon and glittering constellations.
We stood in silence, straining our ears for the telltale hoo-ing of our little friend.

camels!

Aren't camels delightful? I just learned an interesting camel fact this week: long before these humped beasts roamed the deserts of Asia and North Africa, their ancestors inhabited the forests of Canada's High Arctic region. Hard to imagine, but you can read more about it on National Geographic's website.

Who knew?

the pearl of nizwa

We had a car with a full tank (you would not believe how inexpensive petrol is in Oman) and a recommendation from Sue to visit the town of Nizwa, known as the Pearl of Islam. Arabic music blasting with the windows rolled down, we rolled past ochre hills of rock and sand, which seemed to burn a slight orange against the blue sky. Date palm plantations and little fortress-shaped shaped houses in pastel colours dotted the valleys, and every so often, a glimpse of a Wheatear or a Brown-necked Raven would incite us to pull out the binoculars.

Nizwa was once the old capital of Oman, and it surrounds a massive fortress which boasts the largest tower in the country, according to the brochure I was given at the entrance. Scholars, poets, and scientists were drawn to Nizwa from as early as the 9th Century— though two of the town's mosques date back to the 7th Century. The smooth sand-coloured walls and graceful scalloped edges of the tower were so beautifully simple, that I wished I had sketched them— but there were still caves to explore and owls to find.



On our way to the tower, we passed a little bookshop with bird calendars, and a proprietor who had a very elegant beard. His eyes were gentle, and once he learned we were keen on discovering the region's feathered beasts, he showed us a variety of guides and books on the subject. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a glittery Omani flag sticker, which I thought the cover of my sketchbook needed. This eventually led to a showing of my book, to which the man repeated a series of mashallahs in appreciation. He took his time leafing through both our sketchbooks, smiling and nodding, then offered us some more stickers, as well as the Omani Bird Calendars from the past three years. I was so touched by his generosity and warmth, that I thought this experience was worth mentioning— it's important to celebrate kindnesses, no matter how big or small.



While Nizwa's historical sites were wonderful to visit, what I'll remember with most fondness is the man in the bookstore. If you ever find yourself in Nizwa, instead of a ridiculously priced souvenir, buy a book on the region from the man within the walls of the citadel— and tell him that the artist from Istanbul says shukran.

a reunion of sketchers in muscat

Last September, I was lucky to meet and sketch with fellow Urban Sketcher Sue Pownall, who just happens to live in Muscat. She was passing through Istanbul at the time, on a ten hour layover. It was wonderful to catch up with her again, this time on her turf. We wandered the Mutrah Souq, visited an art gallery, and snacked on various goodies.



Not only did Sue share her knowledge about Oman, its art scene, and charismatic leader, Sultan Qaboos bin Sa‘id (who I am fascinated by, and want to learn more about), she introduced me to "honey" pancakes. Crêpe-like and slightly crispy, the pancakes are filled with a honey made from dates— the perfect companion to milky çay. I love dates, and anything containing the sweet gems starts me salivating in seconds. I simply must learn to make this "honey".



Thank you, Sue!

searching for omani flavours

From both talking to people and looking around, it seemed as though it would be a challenge to find Omani food in Oman— there were fast food joints, the horrible, ubiquitous American restaurant chains, options from the subcontinent, and lots of shawarma. I theorized that real Omani food was to be found in a real Omani kitchen, and if you can get authenticity at home, why go out for it? Nevertheless, we were determined to find flavours unique to the Arabian peninsula, at the very least.

Consulting the traveller's faithful oracle, Lonely Planet, I had read that beach side vendors in Al Seeb were known to offer squid kebabs. This was all I needed to unfold a map and tell Pedro to head west. We passed through the bustling town centre, and in a minute or two, reached the end of Al Seeb. Nothing seemed to indicate the presence of these squid kebabs— but we passed a dodgy looking restaurant that called to us, promising dubious décor and an unforgettable experience. We hoped it would be the good kind of unforgettable.

Upon entering, it became evident by the stares I received, that a foreign female tourist with her hair uncovered must have been an unusual sight. Nevertheless, we were greeted hospitably by a man in a red, collared t-shirt, from behind a large display of fish on ice. There weren't any squid kebabs, but there was squid in red sauce, and enormous fish and prawns for grilling. We pointed to the smallest fish available, which was a little over half a kilo, and ordered the afore-mentioned prawns and squid.



The dishes arrived with a surprise bowl of mutabbal, bread, and salad— no cutlery in sight. This was going to be a feast truly experienced with all senses. My students in Nepal love to tell me how food tastes better when eaten by hand; that silverware changes the flavours of the food. While I am not sure about that, I definitely prefer eating with my hands— it's certainly more pleasurable. The fish was blackened with mysterious spices— I could only identify the cumin, peppers, and a hint of lime, but it felt like a happy marriage between Arabic and Indian, or Pakistani... Could this be authentic Omani cuisine? The squid was ok, but the hero of the meal for me were those prawns.

Oh my...



Words cannot accurately describe these flavours— oh no. Grilled to perfection, the little bodies were slathered in some kind of curry and lime, with a generous dose of chili. I secretly hoped they did not meet Pedro's fancy, but they surely did. Lucky for me, he is generous, and I got to devour an extra one.

Unforgettable, indeed!