A Muscat memoir

One fine noon. Sun shone brightly over the laid back city of Ruwi.  We stood all packed, ready to head to Quriyat Wadi.  Wadi in Arabic is traditionally a valley and in some cases a dry riverbed. After rain, water gushes forth through wadis, instantly transforming them into gurgling brooks or rives. Crossing wide wadis at certain times of the year can be dangerous, because of unexpected flash floods accounting for many deaths each year.

Quriyat lies on the east coast, at the end of a sandy plain, overlooked by the Eastern Hajar Mountains. The Wadi Dayqah streams flow from the mountains creating pockets of greenery. It is the largest stream in the Arabian Peninsula with water flowing all year round. There is an ever-present contrast between mountains and coast that makes the area particularly attractive.

Manikkan, Shinto, Salam Bhai, sajith Bhayya, Sabir, joseph and me set off to Quriyat, in two cars stocked up with everything needed for Wadi bashing. It’s Arabic New Year today, followed by a Friday tomorrow, gifting us with two off days to explore our wild sides.

Manikkan is the fattest of us all, with an even oversized head. He looks like a weather-worn tree stump with his short figure and dark complexion. Salim Bhai, at the threshold of 50, is considerate and humorous. He is one hell of a fine cook, I can’t stop tasting something whenever I go to his apartment.  With his visa expired some 6 months back, he is now an illegal immigrant. Nonetheless, he has paid off the penalty at the Ministry of Labor and is counting days to return home.

Shinto is tall and brawny with the walking style of a dinosaur in Spielberg movies. He is manager at Swiss Arabia Perfumes. Another Swiss Arabian, joseph is a fatto with baby like features.

Sajith Bhayya, the source of all things alcoholic (he has secured a permit to buy alcohol worth Omani Rial 50 a month) is a tall, upright and a sturdy man in forties.

Tall but heavy, the hallmark of Subair is his hair. It’s rough to touch. It would easily pass off as coconut fibre painted black. He is into event management and is always the laughing stock of the group, mostly for his for stray camels (a camel without any owner). He wants to catch one from the desert and bring it home.

Quriyat is approximately 100 kms from Muscat. Our car  manned by Manikkan consisted of the younger folks. While the oldies were piloted by Joseph. After driving a few kilometers, we pulled up at a petrol bunk to get water, paper plates and other provisions. This time, I switched over to the oldies’ car where there is plenty of whisky to sip on. I found oldies more interesting. They shared their experiences, the knowledge of the landscape and the travels of yester years. Memories Of the days when they were young too.

The traces of city began to disappear. Buildings gave way to hills. Human settlements seemed far and few between. Undernourished trees dotted the arid plains.

A few months back, Cyclone Gonu played havoc in Quriayat. The devastation it brought could clearly be seen in the outskirts of the town. The old tarmac road (Now we were driving on the new road) was completely washed off. Gigantic pieces of the tarmac lay displaced, like overcooked loaves of bread. Here and there, we saw tattered and mud clad cars which were carried off in the heavy currents. Palms were bowed down to the earth. Bent railings slithered like an anaconda. We came across a water track. That meant the new road ran through a Wadi. A temporary road built across a valley between stretches of mountains on both sides. I was soon reminded of the roads in India and the time they take to be built. But here the roads are made in matter of days. The irony: Indians construct roads. Have we pledged only to work for others?

The car climbed up a steep, speeding through the sprawling mountains, terrains, hair-pin bends and around the hillocks on our way to Quriyat. Mountains stood tall and bald against the skyline. Not even a speck of greenery could be seen around. Yet, we couldn’t stop gazing at the charm of these rugged terrains in fading light. Quite an ideal setting for a fairy tale. Mystical, esoteric and god-forsaken mountain chains. I downed the window. Dry cold wind blew in. Mountains seemed as if they were a rusty chain saw wanting to bury its teeth into the clouds.

Small settlements appeared indicating a nearby town. Quriyat is a small town nestled among the mountains. Here, we couldn’t find the leftovers of Gonu, except for the occasional soiled cars awaiting reprieve from insurance companies. Either because of the cold climate or the work of the whisky, we began to feel hungry. We spotted a restaurant by a mosque. A Mallu restaurant. In Oman, most of the cafeterias, coffee shops and restaurants are run by Mallus. Omanization could only drive out mallu drivers. Mallus still reign in restaurants and dictate what Omanis would eat.  You will not find Arab nationals toiling as taxi drivers anywhere else in Middle East.  

The people here are far from matching Indians either in skill or in hard work. They are lazy bums, liking to idle around. The only time they are on time is when they leave office at sharp 5.30.

We stocked enough of Biriyani, Porotta, chicken, mutton, and beef. But sadly only 6 beers were left for us all. Manikkan checked with the server for a bottle of whisky. ‘We don’t serve it here sir’, he said giggling. 10 minutes passed, two Mallus landed on a bicycle, in diehard mallu tradition. But bought no good news. Our hopes melted like ice cubes in alcohol on hearing that they had just run out of stock. We were unlucky by 10 minutes, according to them. And the town has no bars. ‘Could we come 10 minutes before’ Subair snapped.

In Oman Alcohol is limited to permit. Muslims are not allowed to obtain permit since Islam forbids alcohol consumption. Sajith Chettan had a permit, and had stocked enough to last 20 big-time drunkards, back in his room. He rued the fact that he did not pack one more bottle. 

Journey resumed. Sajith Chettan and Salam Bhai threw themselves back reminiscing their previous wadi visits. Their accounts gave us a mental picture of the wadi: meandering, gurgling and slouching its way down. I changed car again. Now it’s only three of us: Manikkan, Sabir and me. Another pit stop. A petrol station where we met a Mallu who’s returning not being able to find Wadi. He said Wadi was dry and Omani army had camped upstream for some regular exercises. Had Manikkan taken the wrong route? Had we come all the way to find some dry Wadi?

We stopped where the road split into two. Usually, you wouldn’t meet anyone to ask for direction. Here, we were lucky to find one Omani at what seemed to be a bus station. Sabeer speaks Arabic. He poked his head out, greeting the guy with “valekkum Islam”. “Islamum Alekkum”, came the reply as if it had been pre-programmed. That much we could all speak. Then a flurry of greetings and salutations followed. Omani way of greeting is a ritual in itself. When two people meet they ask about everything and everyone in the family except one’s wife.

This guy was short, black and thin. He must be a Zanzibari. He pointed to the right and spoke loud. I understand a few words in Arabic. He was also going to Quriyat and wanted a ride. En route Quriyath, Sabeer tried his best to keep the man engaged or wise versa. 

         

The landscape resembled Munnar minus the greenery and sprawling plantations. And it transformed from arid mountains to misty peaks as we neared Quriyath.  

When we passed a typical Omani house, he stuck his head out. He pointed to his home. According to him, we need to drive down further to reach the Wadi. Masalama, he walked home.

Finally, we were at the Wadi. What we fancied to be a gurgling stream looked like a river of stones. Wadi had shrunk into a thin ribbon of water. We got out, to check if could drive across the wadi. But it was not appropriate to take chances, since our cars were not 4x4s. We rolled slowly down the road, rounded a curve and topped a hill. We were now on other side, with wadi far below.  

Further up, a dilapidated fort rested on a jutting rock. Next was a school followed by small houses aligned in rows. We pulled up, grabbed our things, climbed down.  In the middle of the wadi, a big natural jacuzy was formed, ridged by random rocks. At the narrow end, a log of long wood bridged the wadi. We removed shoes and balanced our bodies like rope walkers. One slip or a wrong step, you would be in the pool.

We all managed to cross. We settled in a small clearing, and unloaded the bags. We sat in a circle, beer bottles lined up. Manikkan unpacked fishing hooks and lines. He made smooth dough balls from the flour which he collected from the hotel. And used it as bait. I thought only a born fool would fish here, as there was no prospect of catching a fish from this isolated pool. But he proved us wrong, he hooked a fish the size of a sardine. All of us got excited. Soon we were by the pool with lines in our hands.  An hour of fishing later, we had hooked around 80 fishes. We stopped when we ran out of bait.                           

Downstream, an Omani family was seen putting up a temporary tent, and they started dancing to the sizzling Arabian numbers.

What’s next? A cool breeze was playing on palm trees, pushing its way around the valley. A debate ensued as to who would be the first one to jump in. One, two, three… I bungee jumped into cold clear water. It was deeper than I thought, the bottom seemed to be covered with white mud. Silvery fishes flashed by. I began pushing myself up, kicking my legs, reached the surface and took a breath. Then I swam to the shallow end and let myself drown until I hit the bottom. I put hands up; just the tip of my hands topped the surface.

Then Shinto took his plunge. He was an excellent swimmer. He swam like a fish even earning him the nickname of Mukkuvan (fisher man). Manikkan wasn’t bad either. He dived down looking for a fishing hook and a roll of lines which we lost while fishing.

Filling my lungs full, I too dived down, came up face to face with white mud. Pressure filled my ears and my hand gotten hold of a white roll. I reached up. It was only a disposable plastic cup. Mani slid himself down, now closer to the rock and recovered his lost treasure.

Our frolics did not interest Salam Bhai and Sajith Chettan. Sabir couldn’t join us even if he wanted, he did not know how to swim. But we tricked him into coming to where the pool was shallow and pushed him from the back. ‘Blum’, he fell.

High up on the rocks, a bevy of Omani girls perched, chatting and sneaking a look at us once in a while.

Sun had sunk into the pool of mountains now. We needed to leave before it was too dark. Because the road went through remote and isolated places. Shops or houses were kilometers away. It was said to be risky being out at night. Rumours had it that the roads were haunted.

We clambered our way back. Omani women were engrossed in cap making. Their hands moved in a default pattern and in practiced harmony. Only their mouths moved in discord. Kids waved at us. We were on our way back home.

It was dark. Car cut through the dense black forest of the night. Roads were not lit and smog came heavily up on us. It was spooky to say the least. Then Subair leaned forward to mention of the ghost of Huriat and dropped back in the seat, aghast. The story goes like this: once there lived a Sufi saint. Before he died, he made others promise that the he be buried in a room and not opened before it was 200 years. But that promise could not be kept. The room was opened. Since then a strange cry could be heard at night from that house. It’s a horrifying howl. But not anything like a human voice. It was recorded and spread as voice messages and through internet. Even we have it in our mobiles phones.

Car bucked. I was jolted back to reality. No one was seen anywhere, hardly any vehicles passed by. Soon a debate ensued as to the existence of ghosts. What better time than this to debate on ghosts? Anyhow, during the course of the debate, we all have our ears sharpened for the howl of the ghost. To our solace, we heard no sound.

We reached Muscat, safe and sound. 

We freshened up. Slaim Bhai had the fish fry ready, set on the table to savour. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm no fish fry ever tasted better. Till now. It went straight into hungry stomachs, except Manikkan’s. Instead, it got into his head. As soon as he On finished dinner, he fished out his fishing rod, packed some sardines from fridge and went to Cornish for angling in the sea. It was past midnight and chilling. The sea-wind blew with cold vengeance as if it knew that we were all set to plunder its wealth. Yet the three were no dearth of people at angling area. There was a huge ‘T’ shaped concrete structure jutting out to sea, an angler’s paradise.  

He settled down, cut a sardine and threaded the hook lengthwise through a piece of flesh. With a swish, he threw the line into the water below.

Manikkan looked at me with the air of an ace angler, as if to say that nobody could cast a line just like that. Most of those who came to fishing could hardly cast a lone. For them it's an elusive fish. 

Just then I felt a twitch in my chest, a pull towards the ridge.

“Are going to kill me?”, I asked Mani

“What?”, He yelled.

“Take the fucking hook off my chest”, I grunted in anger and pain.

With some effort he pulled out the hook, ripping my skin and a patch of t-shirt in the process. He forgot to release the reel as he cast the line making the hook came back and catch my chest. I was duly compensated for it, with a few shots left in his whisky bottle.  

Manikkan was not the kind to give up. He sent the next one to the farthest distance possible. After that he hadn’t had to look back. It was fishing in full swing - no strings attached. We fished till 5 in the morning. Got loads of fish which were to be fried later by Salam Bhai.