Oman

Visiting Oman is like being “the boy in the bubble”, especially after India and Sri Lanka, and I’m not just talking about the joys of infrastructure. My friends live in the prettiest, most beautifully manicured world. Their air conditioned apartment is large and spacious, with high ceilings, granite countertops, and white, oversized, marble tile floors. An enormous balcony with a glass balustrade runs the entire length of their unit and a balcony cleaner comes every week to attend to it. They overlook a pier where expensive ocean toys are docked and regularly visited by cleaning staff. The gulf is clear and calm, ruffled only by light breezes and schools of fish visible through the water. When the fish pop up to feed, the ripples are a silent explosion of fireworks on the surface. Beyond the shining white stone breakwater, the sea rests - vastly blue and quiet. Oman gets an average of 10 cm of rain per year, so it is genuinely cloudless most days. When you travel into the countryside, the mountains appear out of a haze of fine dust as you approach them. But when you get there, there is always blue sky overhead. It’s magical. 

The local hotel, The Kempinsky, is a luxury hotel with 310 rooms. One day I walked by just after a family of 120 (you read that right), from India, arrived with accompanying luggage. There is massive wealth in Oman, concentrated in the hands of the few, although government is focussed on social development and education. International companies must hire locals - who don’t really need to work. Once hired, they cannot be fired, even if they only come to work to socialize for a few hours each day. The benevolent and liberal Muslim ruler, Sultan Qaboos bin Said al Said, has a luxurious palace on the sea in Muscat, set near symmetrical, white government buildings. It’s all very serene and soothing.

I went for a mani-pedi and a massage here and they were to the highest standards. Food preparation is likewise impeccable and Western luxuries are readily available. In this land of frankincense, 100ml of local perfume sells for $350. The everyday world of the well-to-do runs smoothly, mostly on an army of ex-pats. 

Omani men wear a dishdasha - a plain, long white robe - and either a kumma, a cap with embroidered designs, or a turban. There are laws prescribing how dishdashas are made - the cut, the five approved designs, and recommended fabrics - to ensure they remain traditional and plain. Women wear an abaya over their clothes in public - long robes or coats - and in Muscat black is currently the fashionable colour. Scarves cover their heads. Some women’s faces are covered by veils. But, except when visiting a mosque, we foreigners wear what we like. We are simply asked to dress modestly - no bikinis on the promenade. 

Omanis pride themselves on their inherently good natured temperament. They may correct you but, so one man told me, will do so gently. They drive carelessly, apparently justified by the belief their lives are in god’s hands and “it is written” what will happen in this world (and when they will exit it). Public behaviour and conversations are subdued.

But I can’t help but wonder if time could be running out. The Sultan is fighting cancer and has no heirs. What will the next leader be like? The country is trying to reduce its dependence on ex-pat labour and diversify its oil-dependent economy. What will that mean for foreigners living in their midst? Oman is bordered by far less temperate and far more troubled states. How long before this tolerant branch of Islam is attacked? Could this beautiful bubble on the edge of the Arabian Sea burst?