Just like Noudhibou?

Well, I never. Jonathan has arrived to help me paint my house. Or, rather, I will help him (probably by staying out of the way) paint my house. So he and I are tooling around town and even though I knew this from when Tom was here in Khareef, things do change rapidly when I am with a western man. It’s like I don’t even live here. Very weird. Some people don’t even recognize me, and all because I’m not flouncing around on my own.

Jon seems to love Oman, particularly the way it demolishes stereotypes and continuously serves up what you didn’t expect, and does it in such a beautiful way. However, he did say that parts of Salalah reminded him of Noudhibou. Noudhibou is Mauritania’s second city. I can’t think of anyplace less Mauritanian than Oman, on the surface at least. But I had to admit, that, looking at some of his movies of the streets of Noudhibou, made when we were driving through it 2 years ago, that there is a certain tiny resemblance…….in parts. I never would have described Salalah as a place that looks like Mauritania. Yet in a way it’s very satisfying. And we do have plenty of fish, and camel’s milk.

My new house is lovelier by the day, surpassing what I had hoped for. A few more colors and a few more flowers and I’ll be in fat city. It’s not in the garden district, so no more sound of wind in the banana leaves and there are not as many birds but it’s space and quiet, except for the Mosque right outside my window and the neighborhood kids break-dancing late into the night. I can see the far off mountains and the turquoise surf if I go up onto the roof. And the speakers in the little minaret are not distorted. The muezzein is live, not a tape, and crystal clear. So loud, though, that all conversation has to stop. That’s probably a good thing, to be reminded of God so often and so forcefully.

My first visitors were a herd of goats.

No distilling yet. Maybe it’s just me but it seems things go really really slow. I think I often go at warp-speed, dancing on a multitude of sets, and when something makes me slow down, then it’s difficult. But I am learning.

Jon and I were talking about what makes Oman so special and we hit a few good points. One is that the people here seem really genuine. I know there is plenty of subterfuge but basically I think people are realer than anywhere else I’ve seen. I can just hear the groans from Omanis reading this but I think it’s true. Another thing is that here people don’t seem to judge you on the same things they do in the west. The first example would be appearances. Even though there is bound to be a little noticing of this or that, for better or worse, I don’t see the same snide pickiness and cynicism that I might in, say, New York. Another point that Jon made is that the Omani sense of humor translates well into English in general and our personal senses of humor in particular. It’s rare to find this. I hadn’t noticed but he’s right. I laugh more here than I have anywhere outside of Santa Barbara. Jon also pointed out that he didn’t feel as though anyone (almost) had an ulterior motive in speaking to him. In so many places one is always waiting for the hidden stinger. But here it seems people just talk to you to talk to you. And I can hear the Omanis groan once again and tell me how wrong I am but I think it’s true.

And where else can you sit outdoors in a shisha restaurant at 1 am, with the nearest table 30 feet away, bask in the warm night air and look up at a clear Orien in the night sky? Some of my Omani friends think I’m a nut perhaps, but I like it here, for real. Even though most Omanis are proud of their country, there is a streak of insecurity, or an inferiority complex, like something is not good enough. Or maybe it’s just a charming humbleness. Sometimes I think people don’t believe me when I say I’d rather be here than, say New York. Maybe it’s just a case of the grass being greener on the other side, I don’t know.

Not that any of my Omani honeymoon ever waned but having Jon here gives me a chance to show him Salalah and thereby rediscover it for myself. A fantastic opportunity.
I can’t help it, this place draws me in so strongly. Resistance is futile.

Welcome to Yemen!

Buy your ashtrays by the dozen. Don’t eat bananas at night for Gods sake. Qat is not a drug or we would not chew it. Warm drinks in the evening a no-no. I chew qat every day and I am not addicted. The security situation here is really good. Don’t smoke laying down; it’s bad for the health. The best beans in the world. Beautiful stained glass windows in the distinctive Yemeni style decorate high rise stone homes iced like cakes. Total traffic chaos. Welcome to Yemen!

It was a last minute decision to come here to visit my friend and buy a few little things for the store. Needless to say, the Omanis were not pleased. I promised I would not leave the capital and take great care in every movement. The security situation in Yemen is not very good, although this news is met with great indignation from Yemenis. But the capital appears to be ok, and probably lots of other places as well. But it’s better to be discreet, of course. There are still a few intrepid tourists here, and students studying Arabic. And the usual workers from embassies, ngos, and government projects.

In any case, I took the Felix Air, which everyone calls by its Arabic name, Saeeda Air, on the once a week flight from Salalah to Sana’a, with stops along the way in Mukhallah and Aden. It’s a small jet, corporate size, and the flight in both directions is Friday. To fly otherwise is an expensive and lengthy pain. Saeeda Air is the only de facto link between these two countries, odd as it seems. The road link between Dhofar and the Mahara coast is not really entire, as it’s difficult, if not impossible for certain passport holders (American) to cross up through Yemen from Hadramawt. So what you’d think would be a doable road trip is in fact, just out of the realm of possibility.

It’s amazing how different these countries are, as a matter of fact. I am not an expert, by any fantasy, but most Omanis have not been to Sana’a and most Yemenis have not been to Oman. The ideas each have about the other reflect this. Both countries speak Arabic. But even this is an overstatement. Yemeni Arabic dialect is closer to fuzha, that standard way of speaking everyone says I should learn, while Omanis speak the hodgepodge of Salalah dialect, which includes jebali and some mahri thrown in. Techinically they could read each others newspapers but even if they were available I doubt anyone would.

Both countries are Muslim. Yemen is mostly Sunni and Oman Ibadhi. Oman defines security and safety. A tiny population and forward thinking Sultan ensure that fanatics don’t leak in from neighboring countries, like Saudi Arabia, UAE, Somalia, etc. Yemen on the other hand is way more porous, with a population nearly 12 times that of Oman, and a government with different interests. If you want to visit, it’s probably better if you don’t read the State Dept warning.

Food is totally different as well. Yemen has a long-developed cuisine, with plenty of national dishes showing a strong Indian influence. They love strong, bitter flavors like hilbe, a whipped fenugreek topping used mostly for Salta, the lamb stew. Omani food is really far more simple, with fish and rice, or chicken and rice, or meat and rice being usual. Even the tea is different. Yemenis use plenty of cardamom, nutmeg, and even some clove. Omani tea is more simple.

Yemenis chew qat. Omanis smoke shisha. I realize I’m generalizing here, and not everyone chews qat or smokes shisha and some Yemenis for sure smoke shisha—they have lovely ones. But you don’t see shisha restaurants here in Yemen like you do in Oman. But you see qat. Everywhere. To me, Yemen is virtually synonymous with qat. Where you find Yemenis, you find qat, no arguments. This is a fact of life, like changing money in a Chinese restaurant. Can’t write too much about qat, because I will certainly offend someone.

But, just briefly, there are two main schools of qat thought. The first one, that you hear from a few Yemenis, and many Omanis, is that qat is terrible, a scourge, and what holds holds Yemen back from claiming its rightful place in the modern world. It uses all the water, people spend all their money on it, it’s a financial and environmental disaster, etc. The second school of thought, one that you hear from a few Omanis and most Yemenis is that qat is good, it can’t be a drug because first of all it’s not addictive. Some people will tell you they have chewed everyday for 30 years and are not addicted. And it can’t be a drug because they can function, can talk, and work. And also, the Quran forbids drugs so obviously they wouldn’t chew it if it was.




There you have your arguments, and obviously I have not filled them out at all, so as to keep this post manageable. But beware of jumping to conclusions; it’s just too easy. I can’t speak for water consumption, and I don’t have a clue about the financials, but even though I didn’t do research, I do chew qat. I am back in Oman now, and was in Sana’a for 7 days, and 5 of them I chewed qat. The other two days/evenings/nights I sat in the Mafraj (qat chewing social room) and did everything but. It’s undeniable that qat takes a huge place in Yemeni life. Huge. I think my friend chewed for 7-9 hours a day, every day that I was there. And then the qat high stays long after the qat is out. I chewed about 3 hours max per day, and not too many qat leaves as I can’t take being wired endlessly and no sleep and all the rest of it. But I think it’s a drug, no matter that you can talk, and all those other arguments. But this is an unpopular view and since I intend to keep spending time in Yemen from time to time, I will desist.

I would love to continue on in the qat vein because I think it’s interesting, but am about to get overwhelmed here, I can see it coming. So let me just finish up by saying that Sana’a was fun, I’m glad I went, a week was perfect, I went to an extremely well attended book fair, and to the new President Saleh Mosque, which is magnificent, suspiciously close in theme though, to a certain mosque in Muscat……We went back to my favourite Yemeni restaurant, Al beak Al-Shaibani, which I have written about before. Although I didn’t know the name then. There are a bunch of Shibanis in Sana’a and this one is near the French Embassy. They do roast a fish like no one else can, and the sauces and salads, the special tea, the desserts (bint al Sah and Tihama bananas with Hadramawt honey for dipping) are unparalleled.

Yemen is a great destination, a fine place to visit, a bit dodgy at the moment, it’s true, but if you do decide you want to go have a look, I will include my friends website on the right hand sidebar—but it is mostly in German, unfortunately. However, Mr Al-Sharai speaks excellent English and can answer any questions you may come up with. He is also an extremely well-organized, superbly outfitted tour company.

Home Sweet Home

It’s true that I can’t sit still for long. And it seems to get more and more like this, in a way. I don’t usually want to leave where I am, yet I manage it. But really, since I moved out of my garden flat in Salalah at the end of June I have lived out of my suitcases, even in New York. Spare bedrooms, couches, the floor, hotels. But now I am really excited. It has taken a year, but I finally have the most delightful, sweet little home, in Salalah.

It’s a little villa, although some would call it a flat, and I share the compound with an Omani family. The place has needed some work, for sure, but this is getting done and it’s looking and feeling and smelling really fine now. I came today and my neighbors are burning agarwood I think, it’s barely discernable in the air, but it is there and delicious.

I’m near the beach, and a great expanse of Dhofari space, with the mountains in the distance and a mosque very close, but with clear speakers, no distortion, and so this will be charming as well. And there is the most adorable park a block away, walled and green, with trees, fragrant bushes, and big flower pots in the shape of Dhofari incense burners. Armies of Pakistani gardeners keep it fresh, clean and colorful. It’s almost too much to take.

There was one problem, and it seems to be in hand now. No one had ever exterminated for bugs and believe me you need to. So I did it, for the entire place, and really this was something to see—as the red-jump-suited fumigation team and I stood in the warm evening, giant cockroaches cascaded down the outsides of the house, like rats deserting a sinking ship, which is fact what they were. The Indian spray team blasted them with liquid poison as they scuttled down and in the morning it was a sight to behold. Maybe 50 or 60 of these dead things lay around the outside of the house. But this was nothing compared to what Wilson, the delightful and so competent handyman told me: that the night before, the landlady had filled an ENTIRE BUCKET with dead giant roaches just from the outside of their half of the house. I mean, that is just gnarly. And her comment was something like this; “why bother? They’ll be back in three months anyway!” The next day Wilson sealed every crack he could find with silicone. Looks like problem solved for the time being.

I’ve noticed that some of the things I blithely prattle on about just don’t hold up here. I don’t like poison. Holistic is the only way to go, I don’t want to spray my home with toxic chemicals. Use eco-friendly insect killer! Right. Sure thing. Then there was the matter of the guns. Justin and I sitting sedately at that remote beach that night, while our friend went off, leaving us his gun. We were contemptuous, we don’t need guns, we are evolved humans. And later that night the hyena/witch came. Two new arms enthusiasts were born that night. Suvs. Hate ‘em. Why would anyone have one? The usual arguments, which are still true I think, in many cases, but here? 180 degree turn. I would love to have a Landcruiser. We are not always who we think we are, ne’st pas?

Back to my new house. It’s so sweet and homey, and I am full of plans, small ones, but things I can do to it. It’s as perfect a place as I’ve seen. I just keep walking around it and laughing. I even bought a new bed. I have an Arabic style majlis, with those heavy cushions and carpets instead of couches and it’s lovely. Cross ventilation, bright and airy, a whole rooftop with a great view, even a back door…Perfect for entertaining, not that I do a lot of that, but the possibility is there. And I have the best potpourri possible, plenty of frankincense in sacks in the entry hall. Really I can’t imagine anything nicer.

I have been here in Salalah for a while now, but still in the process of getting sorted. Have done no distillations yet, nor visited my friendly trees, but this will come. This evening though, I’m off for a week to somewhere I don’t even want to mention and we shall see what happens. Bad luck to talk about it. I don’t want to tempt fate. But according to the weather report, it’s cold at night there.

So far, I’ve spent my time doing the usual, plenty of yoga, going out for dinner and a shisha, having some tea, sitting around, making friends, trying to make some Arabic stick in this over-used and partly fried brain of mine. I can almost regret the things I did as a teenager, since my memory is so poor, and my retention is like an old person. All those rock concerts, all that substance abuse….What was that? I don’t remember! Was that today? I don’t know! It’s pathetic. Not sure the Omanis believe it. They all have great memories and eagle eyes.

I’ll say this though: Salalah is like a motorcycle gang. In my experience I have been beaten in, and beaten out again. The transitions may be getting smoother, but you have to really want to be here, if you want to be here as I am. I have to thank Taekwondo for this. There have been more than a few times where I was ready to just cash in, to leave, to cry uncle. But those 5 tenets of Taekwondo kept me in: Courtesy, Integrity, Perseverance, Self-Control and Indomitable Spirit. Not sure I could have made it this far without my martial arts training. And thank God I didn’t arrive here years ago. It would have been a disaster.

One of the biggest things I appreciate here, and I’ve written about it so many times, I’m sure (can’t remember of course,) but that it’s the exact opposite of New York in terms of how to deal. The way we are forced to interact in New York will get you nothing but a cold shoulder and isolation here, whereas if I acted like this in New York I’d be beat up, robbed, arrested or committed. But I like this way better. The Omanis may hate that they have to follow this strict social protocol and greet everyone, in a specific way, but since I didn’t grow up with it, it’s a treat. Makes our culture seem rude, abrupt, and abrasive. Which of course it is. But it’s somewhat of a case of “the grass is greener.” Omanis have some bad opinions of the US but also some fantastically hopeful, idealistic ones. Our families are not strong is example. And Americans often pride themselves on “family values.” But if you compare American families with Omani ones, you quickly see that compared to Arabic culture, they are right. But we have greater freedom to do what we like. It’s a trade off. I sometimes get the impression that some people think of “America” as one place, (is it hot in your country now?) where you can sit around in coffee shops or restaurants like you do here, but in a busier, Muscat-like setting, colder, lots of shopping, and without the tribe to look over your shoulder. It’s endearing. Such a delight to swim through this.

The other oil from Dhofar

I didn’t get to distill that eucalyptus. I am now in the slow flow here and have committed to it, probably forever. I do not yet have my special gas burners hooked up and actually I gave it up, because I got a wonderful, really perfect, new place to live. It’s a villa and it’s right where I wanted one but thought it wasn’t possible and there it is and there I am. I will be moving into it shortly as I have some time left on my old place…and it needs the current inhabitants, who happen to be very large cockroaches, to leave immediately. Plus it needs some work. Right now it is still recovering from whatever happened to it during khareef.

I will continue my tiny distillation then. In the meantime, I have a nice kitchen overlooking the back garden where I used to live and I use it for gentle things, like eggplant and coffee.

I cannot imagine two places more different than New York and Salalah, and it’s a trip, as we used to say, to get back into the soft sinkiness of this place. The types of behaviors that are rewarded in New York will get you nowhere here. And I have gotten into a whole heap of trouble here for speaking too harshly and hastily. People are very very sensitive, and easily hurt, but can’t show any of it, and most things are implied. I’ve written all this before. I enjoy it though, it’s like learning a new language.

Speaking of languages, I came to a conclusion about this one. There are not many Arabic teachers here and no Omani ones. Everyone wants you to learn Fuzha, which is what educated people speak all over the Arabic world. Everyone will understand you, it sounds just like the perfect thing to do. Except that no one speaks it. Unless they are specifically speaking to you to Fuzha because you are learning it. And if you learn it you can understand Al Jazeera. (I watch it in English anyway.)

I sit with people and they speak a mixture of Salalah dialect Arabic and Jebali. So that’s what I am learning. And it’s an uphill battle because they thwart you constantly. What was that you said? How to you say it? And they tell you in Fuzha, which they call “The Arabic Language.” But it’s not what they said. The just said it normally, but are repeating in this special language. Because why would you want to learn this local dialect? No, tell me how to say it in your language, not The Arabic Language. Because even though they are speaking Arabic, it’s not The Arabic language. They are speaking ‘Local language,” even though it’s Arabic. Anyone familiar with this part of the world will understand perfectly what I’m talking about.

So I’m going to forget about trying to learn how to conjugate all the persons of each verb, and forget about trying to learn anything that can be offered. That’s basically it. Very difficult place, as I have probably mentioned a couple of thousand times before. Why would the language be easy? Why would the language even be normal Arabic difficult? No, it’s going to be like this. Ok.

Yesterday, after arriving home at 3 am and sleeping at 4, my friend texted me at 7:30: did I want to go to As Shuwaymiya? Never mind that he was also out until 3 the night before, I grabbed my camera and my new machete, and off we drove, for nearly 900 km! I still can’t see how he did it, I was falling asleep before we got to Thumrait. But he just drove and drove. We stopped and ate lunch in the mess hall at the Marmul oil fields. That was a lot nicer than I expected. All men but it wasn’t as horrible as it could have been. They were polite and the surroundings were clean. There are even flowers about. I was not allowed to take photos but got one off before I found out, and it is pictured somewhere here. It’s all these stickers. I recognize two. For the rest, it’s the first time I’ve seen them.

Then we were off, first to Shalim, then on to Shuwaymiya, which was shocking in its remoteness. There were no trees; the vegetation was tufts of grasses, and rocks. The water was a rich turquoise and almost flat. But it was the first time I’ve seen a place like this in Oman. Road work is going on to link this place with Hasik and when this happens and you will be able to drive right up the coast from Salalah to Muscat then I think some services and money will find their way to Ash shuwaymiya but in the meantime I thought I was in Mauritania. Really it looked the same. I saw no cow milk, nor meat, but they had plenty of fish. Lots of structures in the shape of shipping containers. A purely industrial beach, lined with small fishing boats. A couple of hardscrabble shops and restaurants. Partially erected walls and small piles of concrete blocks. Huts made of cardboard. Laundry hanging along the sides of houses. No police. And, incongruously, the Emir of Kuwait built a palace, small for his position, but still, a walled palace, just past town, in the middle of the road, splat. Now the road goes around it. Really this is something to see. He must come by helicopter. And every single thing must be flown in with him. I doubt they have produce in Shuwaymiya, or milk. It’s really remote. And the road is nowhere near being paved. But it was interesting, like being at the end of the earth, in much the same way as Western Sahara feels like, but with a calmer sea. Even though the population is also Bengalis, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the photos I’ve seen of Somaliland. New government housing stands at the edge of town, waiting completion.

We made it as far as Sharbithat, which is maybe even remoter but the hand of the government appears to have reached faster. New villas have been built for the local Omani families and they live free of charge. Lots of women out, and kids shouting the usual How are you fine? as we passed. Slowly, this moderization goes everywhere, raising the living standards, and providing education and all services. The Omani families evidently rent their fishing boats out to the Bangladeshi or Bengali fishermen for half the days catch and clunky old refrigerator trucks lumber down the road, taking their catch to Marmul, or Thumrait, or even Salalah.

Unexpected opportunity

I came home today, after whooping up at the farmers market (think fresh curry leaves, pineapple, eggplant, garlic, bananas, a very strange orange squash-type thing, tomatoes and eggs) to an apartment full of smoke. Maybe it shows my complete sense of placidity, but instead of worrying there was anything wrong I merely ambled into the bedroom, where I found smoke pouring in through the window. Outside they were cutting back and burning part of a eucalyptus tree.
Well! I’ve been waiting for just such an event!
Downstairs I flew and proceeded to drag several large branches back up with me. You see, I have reserved my smallest still for an unexpected herbal opportunity and here it is. Wasu takes it completely in stride, I am a crazy American woman, no problem.
Tomorrow I hope to try my hand at distilling something other than Luban.
We shall see.
By the way, I also scored small harvest bottles of Palestinian and Syrian Olive oils! Oh the glory of it!

No, you haven't heard the last of me.

I know, it has been a long time since I wrote anything. But here I am again, in Salalah no less. And there are a few things I have been wondering about. One is the veracity of latin names. The other is who gets to decide what is ethical harvesting, or endangered, and how do they get there?

Latin names. This is something that I think a lot of aromatherapy people might feel outrage about, if they read this. All the aromatherapy books tell you that you must have the Latin name of the bottle, or the oils are probably not good, not what you are expecting to buy, unreliable, whatever. In principal it sounds logical for sure. And probably some big companies actually test for the constituents known to be present in this species of that one. Some big companies. Maybe a few. But what about small producers? These are our primary suppliers. And I suppose there are a few who are rigorous about making sure that all seeds that they sow are really in truly from the proper species: lavandula angustifolia, Lavandula spicata, lavandula x intermedia, etc for example. Immediately, though, a problem crops up: what is the difference between lavandula angustifolia, vera and officinalis? No one can agree yet lots of people get really irate about it. How about lemon verbena: Alyosia tryphyllata (probably not spelled right) or Lippia citriodora? Again, people come into enfleurage all the time to argue for one or the other of these. In both cases, of lemon verbena and also lavender, I think it’s a question of time, of one name superseding the other. Why, really, does anyone care?

Since I own an aromatherapy company, I have to pay attention to it, but it’s a losing battle. Sometimes we can get away with just putting the newer name on but in many cases, the distillers have absolutely no idea what’s in there, latin-wise.

It’s true. I have asked some of our farmers what they’ve harvested and they tell me “peppermint” or “chamomile” or “lavender” but they can’t go on from there. These three are admittedly all easy to figure out though. The more wiggly ones are the wild harvest. What exactly is the difference between black spruce, white spruce, hemlock spruce, arborvitae, white pine, red pine, balsam fir, Douglas fir (that’s an easy one though), and the rest? Is it really so simple that the entire forest consists of these conifers and only these? I can tell the differences in the oils, that’s not what I mean when I say what’s the difference. I mean, what exactly gets distilled as white pine? Is it really Pinus glauca? Or are there other white pines? I think our conifer supplier is actually very good about this, but it illustrates the question.

Obviously, the reason I’m all over this right now are my usual two: agarwood and frankincense. Long ago I wrote an article saying something about Cambodian and Lao agarwood and calling it Aquilaria crassna. Really, I did a little research but I am no botanist and I have no idea. Now people are writing about this crassna everywhere. I did ask a friend once, and he is a botanist, and specializes in agarwood, but there are not too many of him around. Most agarwood distillers have no idea at all what the species is. They will all say what is expected of them, because people ask. And the gatherers have no idea about this either, of course. People love the aromatics gathered and made by indigenous people everywhere, but really, what is any non-scientist going to know about these old Latin names?

People take it very seriously, though, and I know many will write to me to tell me I’m wrong, and this or that is documented. Well, all I can say is that I don’t think so.

Sometimes I see photos of lovely distilleries, often in delightful France, open to the public, with pretty reception areas, smiling distillers in lab coats and lots of clean, well labeled samples, perhaps some potted plants, the quiet hum of gcs and computers, and lunch afterward, followed by a stroll though the charming herb garden at the back door.

Those do exist. But most of the distilleries we work with are not at all like that. I am happy that they are clean (usually) and practice quality control. And much of the time, when I ask what the latin name is, the eyebrows furrow and they ask what I mean by this. Or, more commonly, they know a couple latin names, based on what they read grows there, the common name, and any parallels they can run between them. But that’s it.

Frankincense is even more wiggly than agarwood, in my opinion. Now, I recently learned that in Oman we have Boswellia serrata. That’s according to Roxbury. Ok, fine. But saying we have boswellia serrata; therefore all our Luban is this serrata is like saying if it has 4 legs it must be a cat. There is no way I will believe that all our trees are one species. The differences between the Mughsayl trees and the trees after Mirbat on the way to Hasik and the trees in Ayoon are enormous. And the Nedjd trees again, and those trees in the Fizayah road. There are probably lots more than these, but these are the major ones I know, and to say they are the same would be like calling a chamomile a daisy, or perhaps a spaghetti squash a zucchini. So here I am distilling this gum, some of which I know where exactly from where it comes, and some I just know the area, but latin names? Maybe these guys have Somalia all figured out, but not Oman, I promise you. And I highly doubt Somalia either, and what about Soqotra? Luban also comes from there and a one botanical enclyclopedia mentioned that there are at least 8 types of Luban on the island that haven’t been named yet! (Soqotra is an island-3 islands actually, but one main one, off the Somali coast and administered by Yemen. It’s most famous for Dragons Blood. The Dragon’s Blood tree even appears on Yemeni coins.)

People ask us for carterii, or fraereana, or serrata, or whatever their aromatherapy book says is “the best one” meaning the one with all the healing properties! Like the other ones don’t have those healing properties! Someone’s done a test for this? Please! Would like to see it if they have! The Omanis can tell you all about healing properties –it’s their heritage after all—but not by latin name!

I’ll have to get to the endangered species/sustainable harvest one later as I hear the Muezzin calling afternoon prayers, which means I am off to do some yoga.

Think of it This Way

Not that I’m drinking.

But it sure feels like it. So exhausted, what they used to call “punch drunk.” I don’t know what that means, but it sounds likely. Unbelievably tired.

I spent the day with a new friend, up in the mountains, Jebel Samhan, and then we went back and back into some wild country. Fortunately, he is one of those people who has to keep following any remote track still negotiable by land cruiser. Suits me just fine. Off we went, turning and twisting this way and that until we were rumbling through some sort of seasonal stone dwellings.

He speaks Jebali, the local language of the mountains here. It’s very distinctive, sharp, guttural and full of sounds that even many non-jebali locals can’t begin to make. These are impossible sounds, and Jebali is full of them. There is no written language.

My friend told me something very interesting. He likes to go on about how Oman was before the modernization begun by His Majesty. Since he is about my age, which feels like 190 at this moment, his childhood was spent in the utmost privation, back in the days when Oman had nothing.

But the thing that has really stuck with me is color. Apparently it’s new. To me Oman is all lovely delicious color: the deep azure sky, all the tans of the desert, the riot of flowers everywhere, the black and white dots of the populous…..But in the jebel there was no color. Men did not wear white dishdashas for example. Would have made no sense. Around the mountain you had earth colors, duns, rocks, livestock, and people dressed in those same muted colors……I asked how would one discuss cows, for example, if the colors are so limited and he said there were (are) a few: black. Red. Brown. But then there is a qualifier: this word means “colour,” sort of, but not any specific one. You have to point it out, using a common thing. Blue for sky, green for plants, and yellow are all one color. This is possible?

When he was quite young he saw his first Lipton tea bag. The design and color is something very nice and he collected over 1000! This was really something special, to see these colors.

He said also that if there had been more modern food packages available, like coke bottles, or biscuit boxes, people from all the villages would have traveled many kilometers to someone’s house to enjoy and marvel at these fantastic objects with such nice shapes and colours.

Their cows would run at the sight of colour. Someone approaching in a white dishdasha, wearing a bright blue scarf, or something yellow would set off a small stampede.

I love the duns of the desert, especially juxtaposed with the blue sky, but also the punctuations of color. The stark hues make them jump. Imagine a world without colours. No purple, no pink, no burgundy, lilac, or orange. It makes me wonder, what do we miss?
These people had no idea they missed purple, obviously, since it wasn’t in their experience of the world. Imagine the sunset! Or the bloom after a good rain!

They say Inuit have so many words for snow. I’m sure they do, but it’s lost on me, since I don’t know the snows. I have never thought of this from the other direction before.