the feeling of being light

I'm not sure what it was about this trip to Oman, but the restlessness and frustration I felt before I stepped off the plane in Muscat, seems to have dissipated. I feel washed clean.

Growing up with a nomadic lifestyle, there's a paradox that becomes apparent during adolescence: you don't belong anywhere, and yet somehow, you belong everywhere. Though this was my first time in Oman, I felt like I had come home. The desert held the same sand I drew pictures in when I was five; it was my sand— and the sea was my sea. Everything was new and yet so familiar, and this wonderful feeling did something to me that I can't quite explain, except to say that I remembered.

I remembered singing ABBA songs with my mother in our little car, on the endless two-lane highway that crossed the desert that was Dubai. I remembered snacking on manaeesh with my father, and taking walks with Uncle Khalil— who would tragically pass away a few years later. I remembered sneaking into my auntie's room with my cousin to secretly sip the holy water contained in a plastic Virgin Mary bottle— and the disappointment that it did not give us superpowers. I remembered bees and bougainvillea, the music of Arabic on my tongue, the smell of salt, and my sister being born. In all of this, I remembered the feeling of being light.



Sometimes, before we know it, we find ourselves digging grooves into the earth with our repetitive movements— commutes and daily chores, paying bills, and other unexciting obligations. I have bored a hole into my living room floor (much like the excavation in Taksim for a new tunnel), where I have been trapped in a pattern that has kept me from making any art. This has been going on for far too long, and the more time that passes, the harder it is to get motivated to do anything about it. I used to call this state of being, The Pea Soup Syndrome. It's essentially stagnation.



And there is something about Oman that is healing.

accents of white

colours of the fish souq

in the cool blue morning

The air smells of salt and frankincense, and in the cool blue morning, Indian Rollers flash their turquoise and lapis wings, while Rose-ringed Parakeets laugh in a green blur.

the muscat festival

After we indulged in a restorative siesta, Gil came home and suggested we check out the Muscat Festival in Amerat. Since 1998, the Muscat Festival has been celebrating Omani culture in a month-long event which includes both traditional and non-traditional performances, the selling of local handicrafts, as well as demonstrations on how they are made, and of course, food.




We perused the food stalls, which all seemed to offer the same thing: crepe-like pancakes, boiled chickpeas, boiled fava beans, and fried bread— easy fair food. I scanned the row of ladies wrapped in colourful cloths, trying to decide who to buy our chickpeas from. What impressed me was how diverse the ladies looked— all were Omani, but some of their features revealed African roots, while others were clearly Arab. Gil explained that Oman was once a powerful empire which roughly stretched all the way from present day Qatar to Mozambique, a fact that had somehow escaped me. A bit shy to sketch, I found a face with a beautiful smile which I hoped I could at least photograph, and walked over to get our food from her. I greeted her with a timid salaam alaikum, and pulled out the number two in Arabic from my memory, hoping that more words would surface— but they didn't. She grinned, ladled steaming chickpeas into plastic cups, then pointed to some chili powder and looked at me with a raised brow. When I nodded yes, her grin widened and I got an "aywaaaa" of approval.

salaam, oman

I've just returned this morning from six days in stunning, sunny Oman, where I delighted in summery weather and plenty of its perfect complement, minted lemonade. The blue skies, pinkish ochres of the desert, gleaming white dishdashas, and brilliant splashes of crimson, fuchsia and emerald on the scarves and dresses of some women (others were head to toe in inky black)— was nearly too much to bear for a colour-starved girl coming from a dismal, wintry Istanbul.

We arrived in Muscat around six in the morning on a Saturday. It was already warm, and my wool coat was beginning to itch. Blinking in the sun, a bit dizzy from our red-eye flight, we waited for our friend Gil, who generously offered us a home during our stay. Once we dropped off our bags and changed into something more appropriate for the increasing heat, Pedro and I headed down to a little nearby beach in search of Sooty Gulls and whatever else we might find.



Sooties we found, casually strolling in the sun, competing with House Crows for dismembered crabs. I kicked off my shoes and dreamily followed them to the shore, where the Arabian Sea spit out shells of all colours mixed with chunks of sanded green glass. I was six again, brown-skinned and curious, my toes coated in fine pebbles and glittering with nacre— my mother collecting shards of coral and cowries nearby. This little beach was so much like the beaches from my early childhood in Dubai, before it was Dubai. A desert sweeping into the sea— the waves and laughter of gulls, its only sounds.



Salaam means peace in Arabic.
Oman was beginning to feel so very good.