They come silently out of the desert – a
herd of camels padding across the sand, snaking in single file through the
darkness. The first lifts its head, sniffing at the smoke of our car engines as
we turn it off and wait. Then, just as quietly as they had arrived, they all
move off, until there is nothing but us, the endless dunes of the Empty Quarter
and a sandstorm up ahead.
The al-Hajar Mountains form the towering
gateway to Oman's interior. A silent testimony to a time of geological chaos
and immense volcanic activity, the range soars dramatically from gravel plain.
Climbing precipitous tracks, our jeep heads into a wild rockscape of giant
ophiolite rocks, limestone and splintering mudstone. We head towards Snake
Canyon and the Wadi Nakhar gorge. Fakhir, my bedu navigator of about 18, points to my left and I see goats graze
precariously on the rock face, feeding on clumps of acacia, wild olive, aloe
and grasses. In his broken English he talks about his nomad family and adds
that his mother makes the best kahwa,
the kinds of which even the hotels of Muscat cannot match.
After hours of nerve-racking driving, we
reach the lofty canyon rim. Ahead of us is Jebel
Shams – the mountain of the sun. At more than 3,000m above sea level, the
peak is one of the highest on the eastern Arabian Peninsula. A vulture circles
silently above the chasm. We teeter on the edge, gazing at this vast panorama
known as Arabia's "grand canyon". At a distance I can see a couple of
black and red canvas tents flapping in the breeze, tightly pegged to the sandy
terrain.
"Millions of years ago, all this was
ocean floor," says the boy. Had I not known this to be a fact I would not
have believed him, it seems impossible even to imagine. Hopping of the car, I
follow him to a tent. A little girl of about six emerges gesturing excitedly.
Her eyes capture me, the kohl is dark and heavy, heightening her brown skin and
making her look wise beyond her years. She has her hands full with colourful
bracelets, and mountain sandals woven from goat hair, probably she thinks I am
a tourist and she is ready with her sales pitch. In the distance the
yellow-ochre dunes line the horizon. Sand edges onto the forecourt of my
destination of the night.
I get busy with my camera trying to capture
as much before night descends. All over the terrain I notice tracks come and
go, but Fakhir knows these strange
billowing sands well. Those taking self-drive tours often get into trouble
here, he tells me. "If you are following the tracks of another vehicle and
the tracks disappear, stop immediately." He points to a large patch of
sand that looks identical to the kind we are crossing. "See there,
quicksand. It's younger and paler than other sand." I can't see any
difference.
Slowly darkness sets in and brings with it
a fierce breeze that makes my shirt flap and pulls at the turban I have around
my head as protection against the sun. Salma, I now know her name, brings me kahwa and I can tell she is fascinated
by my equipment. I am too, of her. We sit side by side, with a wall of language
between us. Letting her fiddle with my laptop allows me a glimpse into her life
as she slowly opens up in her limited English. She shares her spartan tent with
her parents and nine siblings, she being the youngest. She and two of her
siblings walk 2kms every day to the nearest school where they learn to read the
Quran and also numbers. Fakhir walks
in with dates. He now has changed into a long white dishdasha robe with a traditional embroidered Omani kummah, or cap. On his waist is a sash,
and tucked in it, a curved knife, called a khanjar.
A tassel dangles from the neckline. The oldest of Salma’s brothers, he is ready
for marriage as I am told by the excited sister and then his wife can add a few
drops of perfumed oil on his tassel, she adds with a laugh.
Shooing away his sister, Fakhir sits down and explains that often
there is no water to be found on their journeys, and they drink only camel and
goat milk. “Sometimes, when there is a thick fog at night, we put out a cloth
over a tree and the next morning, we squeeze out some water”. He loves his
camels, meeting friends and family and enjoys the beauty of the shifting dunes
every single day. He can tell from a hoof-mark how long ago a camel walked by,
if it had a rider on it, or even if it was pregnant.
Later in the night I meet the mother of Fakhir and Salma, a mere girl she seems. Light footed and gorgeous, she is shy
and has her fingers twirling around her brightly coloured, multi-patterned
clothes. Her face, except her eyes are covered with a cloth mask. On prodding
for the reason of this veil, she talks to Fakhir
in a sing song voice which he relates to me. “The world is open for me to see,
but I choose who sees me”
A reticent woman, she leaves, before I can
ask her more. The generosity of the Bedouin
people is legendary. Sitting amongst them, sharing their lifestyle beneath
countless stars and towering dunes, I am struck by the contrast between their
gregarious nature and the forbidding hostility of the desert. And no doubt,
when out in such enormous space; be aware why this kind of pleasure in company
has developed.
Ready to finally call it a night, I am led
into their half of the tent by Salma. This half is for the women, children,
cooking utensils, and storage. The other half contains a fireplace and is used
for entertaining. The women do most of the work, while the men socialize and
make plans for the group. The material culture of the Bedouin is limited. Their
tents are their main possessions, and animals are very important for their
nomadic lifestyle. Camels are their main means of transportation, while sheep
and goats are bought and sold. They weave baskets of palm fronds and carry
dates to the market in them. From where I lay, the night sky was a rage of
glittering stars and with no city noise to disturb, sleep came easy.
Shunning modern existence, these nomadic
denizens of The Empty Quarter live as they did centuries ago, herding their
camel and goats, living in tents made of palm fronds, and animal skins and
wandering in search of water. To them, an unfettered existence, freedom under
the stars and the continuation of tradition far surpass the lure of
twenty-first century conveniences. They bear allegiance only to their families,
their tribe and to the crescent moon.
Travellers of the stars,
They weave dreams of straw in the day.
Peeping into their lives from the city,
Wretched it feels.
Living in their threadbare tent, sipping their tea,
When I view my world outside,
Just as wretched a deal.
