Like the Magi, I journey West by starlight to see a king and his kingdom. As the plane lands in Muscat, capital of the Sultanate of Oman, the sun comes up from the deep, dark depths of the gulf and shadows retreat across the Al-Hajar mountains. Home to Sindbad the Sailor and the civilisation that gifted the Queen of Sheba her frankincense, Oman stands at the razor's edge of the Arabian Peninsula, at the crossroads of culture and trade from Asia, Africa and Europe.
A light-and-shadow show unfolds across the dun and copper bluffs that surround the airfield — a curtain raiser to a land of exceptional beauty. From the limestone cliffs of Qantab beach, the powdery sands at Fin's, the wind-brushed port city of Sur, the dune rides of Wahiba sands and the pre-Islamic forts that guard the canyons to the cling-to-the-coastline white houses of old Muscat, there's – as Oman tourism boasts – ‘no place quite like it'.
Talili Khelifi, a Tunisian by birth and a warm Omani at heart, is my tour guide from Desert Adventures. He speeds me past date plantations and smooth-lined avenues filled with laburnum trees. As he eases the Land Cruiser into the city's older quarter, life slows to the pace of a leisurely cup of kahwa, relished with dates by handsome men in white dishdashas and beautiful women in abayas. I get off to wander through the Bait Ul-Zubair, the house that became a museum and opened its carved doors to the public in 1998. I travel faster than H.G. Wells through the Zubair family's private collection of ancient matchlocks, carved khanjars (ceremonial daggers that are the Omani equivalent of a gold fob), Vasant Telgote's paintings of sultans from the Al-Bu Sa'idi dynasty which has ruled the country since 1744, models of buttressed forts, Bedouin jewellery, regional costumes and double-edged swords. Life-sized painted oryxes dot the grounds, casting sharp shadows in the noon sun. The temperature reads 46 degree C in the shade, and I marvel through sun-seared eyes at the grand sweep of the Muttrah Corniche that skirts a cerulean sea filled with dhows in full sail.
With sunset, urgencies cease and the evening's agenda has nothing more than watch the moon rise over the historic Al-Mirani and Al-Jalali forts — guardians of the harbour— strengthened by the Portuguese in the 16th Century when they trundled their cannons eastwards in their quest for gold, glory and gospel. The Last Post plays out at the sultan's Al-Alam palace, and its plaintive strains are punctuated by the noisy call of mynas and the rush of pigeon's wings from the mosque nearby.
Muttrah souq, with its arched gateway and the kaleidoscopic swinging lanterns that light its alleyways, seems straight out of an illustrated version of the Arabian Nights . Treasures from Aladdin's cave tumble out of the stalls — beads and baubles, gold doubloons and silver ingots, samovars and hubble-bubbles, carpets and kummas, frankincense and myrrh.
I visit the Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque, laid out in terraced gardens with fountains, with Talili's friend, Abdullah Al-Rahbi. Built of Indian sandstone with a grand gold-leafed dome that coruscates in the mid-morning sun, the mosque is inspired by the best of Timurid architecture. Moroccan lanterns hang from arched corridors and the gilt and sapphire central hall, is illumined by a massive Swarovski-encrusted chandelier. The 28-shade hand-woven prayer carpet — the second largest in the world — brings together the classical Tabriz, Kashan and Isfahan traditions and mirrors the pattern on the walls. Although the mosque is filled with the faithful (most Omanis belong to the Ibadiyya sect), the quiet calm is ruffled only by the call of a laughing dove.
Formidable monuments
We drive 140 km west to Oman's ancient capital, Nizwa, but not before a brief visit to the Amouage Perfumery for a bespoke olfactory experience. Nizwa Fort (built c.1650) shimmers in a haze of heat as I climb its huge drum-like tower. The sun-dried turrets have commanding views of the mountains, the surrounding countryside watered by aflaj irrigation systems and the Iberian cannons that guard its massive doors. Along with the 13th Century Bahla Fort (a UNESCO World Heritage Site), and the stately Jabrin Castle (c.1675), Nizwa fort has underground passages, murder holes — through which much medieval cruelty was executed by pouring hot date syrup on intruders — rusted cannon balls and shields made from rhinoceros hide. Jabrin has lattice-worked windows, painted ceiling beams and embroidered cushions strewn all over its breezy rooms.
I laughingly dismiss Khelifi's story on ill-luck befalling those who do not kiss the imam's tomb that lies within the precincts of the castle. Minutes later, I lose my way in the cavernous passageway and get locked inside, it being way past visiting hours. One phone call and I'm out in a trice, but Talili and Abdullah can't stop laughing at the mischief of the spirits.
Lunch is at Al-Hoota cave but there is no time to marvel at its geological wonders as we wind our way to The View, a tented eco-luxe resort in the Jabal Shams mountains. The drive from Al-Hamra is arduous but the view from the camp as the valley lights up is breathtaking. Sand martins and swifts flit past my tent deck and a lone Egyptian vulture rides a thermal. The sun sets and a strong wind tugs at the tent flaps. The moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
I lie in my hammock thinking of that old Arabia hand, T.E. Lawrence, and fall asleep “shamed into pettiness by the innumerable silences of stars.”
(The writer was in Oman at the invitation of the Ministry of Tourism, Oman.)
