The hour flight to Oman is on what I would classify as a redressed American Airlines 737. There’s barely enough time to take off, get to a cruising altitude, and then start a descent. But in that time we did get a snack box and apple juice.
An Indian couple next to me were very chatty. They asked about my wife and children and when I said I had neither they gave me advice on the need for companionship and that a good match comes when both sacrifice equally… marriage is hard work and your best barometer of the person is how much compassion they show. Probably all legit advice but God was I not in the mood; also they were very spiritual and telling me about that. It was an hour flight remember so how detailed could they get? V-E-R-Y. I know all about her career in nursing, his in Dubai business and his desire to either wind it up or turn it over to his son — he’s told his son he needs to decide soon if he wants it because the dad wants to get back to Toronto to spend more time with his wife. And so much more. So, so much more.
Unbeknownst to me, somebody spilled their apple juice on my carry on. At least it only had an hour to sit in it’s apple juices. I found out about as I pulled it up and felt a wet sticky substance on the canvas bag. Yeesh.
Landing in Oman the immigration counters were each staffed with four guys. They didn’t really ask questions about my stay or what I was doing in Oman. They mainly just wanted to chat. Maybe that’s the Middle Eastern way. Chat about family and then eventually get to business… which took about five minutes of chitchat and then all of about two seconds to review I was staying for five days and then WHOOMP – stamp. They did want to know about my new “king,” Donald Trump. I demurred.
I can’t wrap my head around the conversion rate. One real is something like US$3.62. Everything seems to cost a fortune and we’ve been ripped off by several taxi cab drivers already who claim they can’t make change on top of arbitrary fares. Only airport taxis have meters; otherwise it’s up to the driver to assign a fare. Reda was quite assertive in negotiating the fare down after the initial two rides felt like scams. The long ride out to the muttrah souk from our hotel cost an inflated 19 reals; the return negotiated by Reda was a deflated and perhaps still too much 12 reals.
But seeing the rain water soaked souk and the nearby Al Alam Palace on the Gulf of Oman was definitely worth the hassles.
Note: More photos forthcoming. Sprint apparently doesn’t offer international roaming in Oman and my hotel’s WiFi is shaky at best.
Tomorrow – from the sprawling sea town fishing village vibe of Muscat to the Bedouin camps of the red sand dunes…