Oman - unexpectedly

I decided the day before the national Eid-ul-Adha holidays at the end of last year to take advantage of my few days off and make a trip to Delhi. (I really haven't updated this blog in so long... A sign of how busy my professional and social life has become!). I had a couple of friends in Delhi to visit. So, all packed up, I was taken to the airport but on arrival was told that the Indian Airlines flight for that day was cancelled. Apparently this happens often. There was no guarantee of the plane coming the next day either. 

Having mentally prepared to leave, there was no way I was going back home. I asked about tickets to other destinations such as Dushanbe (Tajikistan) and Urumqi (China), to where there are direct flights from Kabul. But there were no flights on that day so after some more thought I opted for the next flight to Dubai on Ariana Airlines - not the usual carrier of choice and I wasn't even sure if I was allowed to use it - and hoped to get an onwards flight to Delhi once there. Surely there would be loads of airlines from Dubai? Ariana Airlines - despite being "the national airline of Afghanistan", was operated by the Tbilisi-based Air Batumi and hence staffed by a team of surly and stern Georgian stewardesses. This, coupled with the predominantly Afghan passengers (unlike Safi Airways and Fly Dubai, which are normally full of expats) made for a fairly interesting flight.

In Dubai I made my way from Terminal 2, which seems to be mainly for failed, or failing, state destinations (Erbil, Baghdad, Mashhad, Kabul), to Terminal 1 to buy my ticket for Delhi. Much to my surprise, I was told that all flights were full for the next 2 days, apart from a 1st Class ticket to Delhi that was available. Willing neither to fork out for that nor to stay in Dubai for the holidays, I asked the ticket agent to give me options for any other flights leaving ASAP for anywhere in the region where I did not need a visa. Options given included Istanbul, Tel Aviv and Beirut, but then he told me there was a flight to Muscat (Oman) leaving in 1.5 hours. A prompt decision later and so Muscat it was! Before I knew it I was on the almost-deserted Swiss Airlines 30 minute hop to Muscat, arriving at around 1am. 

With no hotel booked, I made for the airport bookshop and browsed some guides and asked the cashier for recommendations. As is often the case in these countries, he thought I wanted to stay in a resort in expat-land. Having settled for a fairly-decent looking place in the book, I sped through the Muscat night along super modern highways - passing the incredibly colourful Sultan Qaboos Mosque, which was illuminated - and checked into the Safi Suites Hotel. This had the coldest air-conditioning I have ever experienced (and I am someone who loves air-con). The next morning, I opened my curtains into the dazzling sunshine to see what Muscat looked like, but I was confronted by a gigantic highway and a giant homestore. 'Can this really be it?!' I thought, wondering if I had made a huge mistake. I accosted the waiter in the restaurant at breakfast to ask where the action in this city was - because it certainly wasn't in the vicinity of the Safi Hotel Suites.

I settled on Muttrah, on the Corniche by the sea, and this was absolutely stunning! Approaching the curved shore lined by a slick avenue, white-washed buildings and backed by mountains, I felt I was in Monaco or at least the Costa del Sol. The hotel wasn't very nice (Hotel Corniche, I think), but I walked and walked endlessly in the sunshine, free of all the Kabul security restrictions, in awe of the beautiful architecture. The warmth and the open spaces were blissful.

The Corniche in Muttrah

Some interesting architecture along the Corniche

The next few days in Muscat were spent doing typical touristy activities. There were far more tourists than I had expected. A highlight was Bait Al Zubair, a museum of Omani heritage, which was excellently curated and a 2 hour introduction to all things Omani, ranging from history to artefacts to clothing.

I checked out the famous Muttrah Souk, which was full of winding lanes selling perfumes (especially frankincense), jewelry and gold ornaments. It was fairly interesting, but nothing on a par with bazaars in India or markets in China. In fact there was very little that I considered buying.

I also visited Sultan Qaboos mosque, which was an awe-inspiring feat of Islamic architecture, checked out the huge shopping malls that aspire to be like Dubai, and hired endless taxis t ferry me around this surprisingly spread out capital.

The food was a disappointment, mainly because it seemed difficult to actually eat Omani food. There were so many Indians in Muscat (almost all male migrant workers) that getting chai and samosas was easy, but to eat Omani food I had to make a trip to the other side of the city to a specialist restaurant. It wasn't really worth the trip - I had baked fish and some kind of spiced stew, but none of them were that memorable.

At Bait al Zubair - Museum of Omani heritage

Sultan Qaboos Mosque

Fort at Nizwa

On my last day I hired a car and made a trip into the desert south of Muscat, to the ancient capital city of Nizwa. The landscape was beautiful and the skies a gorgeous turquoise blue, but generally similar to Afghanistan (brown, mountainous, desert-like). Nizwa was a treat, and beside the fort there was the souk, which, although closed for Eid, still had several shops open. The pottery was impressive, if slightly unrefined, and I couldn't resist buying a chunky frankincense burner, which I use to burn Japanese incense in my room in Kabul.  After Nizwa we visited some more forts, such as Jebrin, and villages that were built on scraggy hillsides, defying the forces of gravity (Misfah al Abreen). The combinations of shadow and light in the forts, in particular  the silhouettes created by the sculpted walls, made the biggest impression on me by far. 

The highway back to Muscat

                                                                                       

Oman was completely unexpected, but turned out to be a pleasant surpise. Despite the evident new wealth in the country, you can feel the richness of the heritage and, importantly, the way that it is a source of pride for Omanis. This was evident in the preservation of traditional architecture (some air-conditioning units are even covered with white patterned boxes for aesthetic effect) to the shining white dishdasha robes the men wear. This was the lasting impression I got from my few days there.

Traffic like no other

Last night I was involved in my first (and hopefully last) Kabul car accident. It wasn't a collision of cars, but the collision of my car with some rocks. Driving down Jalalabad Road on the way to dinner at the UN compound at fairly high speed, we swerved left to avoid a large rock in the road but then ended up smashing the front left of the car into the central reservation (a series of concrete blocks). After the terrible smashing sound upon impact, the car ricocheted to the right, at an angle, on two wheels for several metres. Despite being convinced we were going to flip upside down, we didn't, but the car lurched from side to side, skidding right to left, with the brakes screeching (and me screaming "OH MY GOOOOODDDDDD!!!!") for a while. Fortunately there were no cars passing us at the time, otherwise there would have been an almost certain pile up; we had no control at all in those moments. The car was, unsurprisingly, unable to continue so we ground to a halt at the side and saw that the left tyre had been completely split open, with the hubcap ripped off. In the darkness, the driver managed to change the tyre, while I stood mildly shaking in front a boarded up shop, making full use of my Marlboro Lights. It happened so suddenly - in a flash - that it seemed completely unreal afterwards. In those seconds of panic, I had flashbacks to Kolkata in 2002, when I was very nearly run over by a bus on a dark street, saved only by the scream of a pedestrian (who had seen me), which made me notice the oncoming bus, missing it by at most one metre. A bit too close for comfort. I had only recently been saying to friends that if anything bad happens to me here, it will likely be a traffic, not Taleban, related accident.    

Kabul is a traffic nightmare. I've been to lots of cities in developing countries with horrendous traffic jams, poor roads, a lack of rules and general chaos. Indeed, after passing my driving test in UK, the next day I flew to Lagos, Nigeria, where I lived for the next 6 months, picking up the worst Lagotian anarchic driving habits imaginable. But I think Kabul tops it all, in the sense that all these unfortunate aspects are of the worst extent possible here. In Manila, for example, the jams are hideous but the roads are generally good. The same goes for Bangkok. Even Kathmandu is more advanced. So many roads in central Kabul just do not merit that term; they are like safari tracks, giving the sense of being in a rural village, not the centre of a capital city. The dust clouds are quite a sight. 

Central Shahr-e-Naw, with ubiquitous Toyota Corollas

Then we have the cars, 90% of which seem to be Toyota Corollas that were unfit for Japanese use circa-1980, so have been exported here. Some appear to be almost falling apart as they drive, with headlights by no means a norm. One of the amusing aspects is many of the cars imported from (it seems) Japan, Korea and Germany, still have the names of their previous roles written on the side. So, for example, you will see a van with 'East Osaka Old People's Home' emblazoned on it, or a truck with 'Tanaka's Furniture - the best from Tokyo' or suchlike. I have asked Afghans about what they think of these incongruous names, but am consistently told that those signs are deliberately not erased or painted over, as they represent a status symbol (even if the meaning is senseless in its present context). How I would love to show the previous owners in Japan where their company cars are now (and the state they are in). Actually the previous owners would probably not remember them, as they likely sold them off decades ago.

"Tokyo Marine - Kohoku Swimming Club"

Back to the traffic. Today it took 90 minutes to travel a kilometre, from the Ministry. And of course we cannot walk, so you just have to grin and bear it, sit back and listen to the Hindi/Iranian/Afghan/Pakistani tunes. It's wise to go to the loo before setting off in the car; you never know when you will arrive. Traffic lights are of course not seen, although the occasional traffic policeman is, waving his (always a him) arms frantically and blowing his whistle, while inhaling copious amounts of dust in between. Not an enviable job, by any means. Cars line up within centimetres of each other, they jostle for position, swerve in front (e.g. to turn left or right) with seemingly little or no concern that the oncoming vehicles might not stop for them. My drivers chuckle to themselves at my reactions to this, as if to say "Frank, of course they'll stop - just chill out...". My driver last night was not chuckling, that's for sure.  

Traffic jams also leave you feeling exposed. At least when you are motoring (bumping) along you feel that you could make a swift exit or turnaround should you need to in an emergency, but in a jam, there is nothing you can do but hope that all around are benign folk just going about their daily business. The advantage is that you get to observe copious amounts of street life, which is often the most interesting part of being here. Street vendors, market stalls, decrepit buildings, not to mention the fellow sufferers in the traffic jams (who often get out, form groups, sit on their bonnet, etc.). Child window cleaners frequently come and start wiping your windows (which are always shut with doors locked), using the most grubby cloths that sometimes actually make the window dirtier than it originally was. In much the way trains were such an integral part of Tokyo life, in Kabul the 4WD is central to the experience. Being unable to walk anywhere here, the life inside, and seen from, the car very much equates to Kabul life for me. 

The Russian Swimming Pool

I recently made an excursion to a unique Kabul sight with some friends - an Olympic-size swimming pool built by the Russians during the Soviet occupation, which is located on top of a hill overlooking Kabul. There's no water in it (although our driver thought we were going to go swimming), so you can enter the pool and walk around inside, much to the bemusement of the Afghan National Police watching. Rumour has it that the Taliban used to hang people off the colossal diving boards, although I'm not sure if this is just a Kabul tale or not.

 

The view from the top was spectacular, with endless brown roofs and mountains in the distance, smothered in clouds. Some NATO helicopters swooped overhead and reminded us of where we were. NATO helicopters are an everyday occurrence (disturbance) here, but there was something quite special about seeing them from the top of this hill. Definitely a memorable excursion.

No shortage of oddness in Kabul

I thought I would share a couple of amusing snaps from the past week in Kabul. It's only in these kinds of countries where you would see such things, I feel.

Firstly, we have a woman travelling in the boot of a car. Clearly not happy with the prospect of having the boot locking her inside, she opts to hold it open, no doubt tiring her right arm significantly. As we approached from behind, we saw that there was also a kid or two in the boot with her, not to mention uncountable others stuffed inside the car.

The next one was taken by a colleague in the 4th floor toilets at the Ministry of Finance. It is a urinal on the windowsill - out of use, of course. There isn't any barrier between it and the outside world; I fear a sudden collossal gust of wind may dislodge it and send it crashing to the streets below. Being floored by a flying urinal would not be a good way to go...

It's these kinds of things that provide bursts of amusement when living in a place like Kabul - and the way they are so unexpected make it even more so.