an interlude
I float immobilised on water's surface, eyes transfixed
by the late afternoon collage suspended above me.
Shaggy heads of palms sway slightly in the foreground,
wispy clouds slide slowly behind, an illusion of depth,
a vast sheet of translucent lapis hangs as the backdrop.
The tableau is framed by a circle of mute peaks,
the stony giants straining to peer into the cool pool
hidden in the inner courtyard of the Khasab Hotel.
Discipline dissolves for maintaining the here and now,
memories slowly percolate from below like bubbles.
Another pool which had provided refuge halfway
round the world is conjured by whichever
local jinn has commandeered my wandering thoughts.
Welcome to LA, another sunny sky,
other palm fronds, another life.
My lungs fill with the acrid scent of sage
baked by the California sun.
I try to announce my arrival, but no one responds.
A rustle stirs hillside brush and I sense hidden eyes,
that coyote still lies in wait,
still hoping to lure plump pets to play.
A twitch of fossilised anger rouses me.
I raise my head from the water, reverie snapped;
memories shake away like drops.
the search
Khasab surprises me.
I had anticipated a rundown clutch of buildings
on a stony beach, a dusty corner of an isolated territory.
I discover instead a pleasant mix of old and new,
with shops and villas and government offices
organised round a lush oasis.
Mountain had grudgingly surrendered a wide space
but walled it on three sides with towering parapets
(which the setting sun is busily splashing with gold).
The bay and vast Sea abut the fourth side of the enclosure,
offering escape or cutting it, I can't tell which.
I drive through the date plantation to the corniche road
where a square-jawed Omani fort
stares forlornly out to Sea, still on guard
against the ghosts of marauding intruders.
Shadows lengthen as I circle to the far side
of the bay, as instructed.
I stop to question two surprised bedu youth,
both carrying the thin Shihuh walking stick
topped by a small silver hatchet.
Beside my car in the middle of the road
the boys consult each other so seriously,
at such length, I had to smile;
I try but fail to parse the non-Semitic
cadences of their language.
The light of recognition shines from earnest faces,
Yes! His family lives past there, down that road if you go.
But stop with us and drink tea?
(An essential travel skill in Omani villages
is learning how to refuse hospitality politely.)
I bump slowly down the dirt lane and accost an old man,
but before my question, he supplies his answer.
Go beyond the last shore, you'll find it there.
I must have looked puzzled, but with a penetrating gaze
he waves me forward brusquely with his walking stick,
insisting on his cryptic command,
beyond the last shore!
I am too startled not to acquiesce.
The final encampment of houses is passed,
to where Mountain had marched boldly into Sea,
forcing land to end.
Tide is out, stripping bare a long stretch of puddled sand.
Setting sun bleeds shore and horizon into borderless haze.
I squint at a football game scattered across the tidal flats,
skittering figures just silhouettes
above wavering reflections.
I greet two men seated on the shore and repeat my search.
Sure, he's out there, they peer into the glare.
Yo! Hey! Taleb!
A small figure spins round and separates itself
from the contest, a slow trot through the haze
gradually coalesces into my friend.
An exclamation of surprise,
Ahlan! Welcome! What are you doing here?
He grabs my hand and quickly pulls me
to put his cheek to mine, three times as traditional,
adding an extra for emphasis.
We laugh, giving pause to the gathering darkness.
I am led to his home which shelters a few date palms;
the house is built at the base of the cliff face
which rises vertically from behind it
to disappear into the black night.
Taleb seats me with nonchalant ceremony
in the simple majlis, a portrait of the Sultan
hanging in place of special honour.
We exchange news and the visit ritual proceeds.
Omani coffee is punctuated by dates from the garden,
tea accompanied by mounds of mangoes and oranges.
Time then for village aerobics,
up and down, up and down,
rising from the floor cushions to greet each newcomer.
I am thus introduced to father and brothers and friends,
and as a bonus get my exercise for the day.
The encounter at the wharf is related
and repeated to general mirth,
the description of each person
must have a name established.
The wedding in Kumzar? Yes, of course you should go!
We'll use my father's fishing boat, and we'll take...
(I no longer even wonder at the sequence of events,
volition having been surrendered some time before.)
Arrangements are quickly concluded
for provisions, for timing,
for some lads from Kumzar to join the expedition.
Farewells are made and I depart to retrieve my car,
but slow trek into moonless night is abruptly halted
when I discover what does lay beyond the shore.
A glowing reflection ripples across the murky bay,
attached like a wiggling tail
to an apparition low in the sky.
Wide-eyed I stare at the elusive comet
I had searched for, in vain,
revealed here amid a million points of light.
I breathe softly, as though afraid that
I might disturb celestial grace.
Several other dark figures can dimly be seen
seated along the shore, I presume
in silent communion with the visiting seraphim.
the voyage
As our boat joins early morning scrum at the busy wharf,
we wait for the last Kumzari to arrive;
our turn today to be scrutinised by dockside crew.
Offloading the night's catch is a noisy swarm of activity;
silvery, squirming heaps of fish glisten
as sun wrestles free from last embrace of tallest peaks.
Our last bundles are stowed securely under hatches,
ropes are tossed on board.
All of us help to push the boat from the melee of
gulls squawking, workers shouting, motors revving
and chums cackling some last commentary about us.
The double engines roar to life.
We accelerate to escape across the sparkling bay,
our thoughts on Kumzar and the wedding to be.
The hotel's maritime chart had revealed Musandum as
a nether world of deep fjords and stark headlands,
crooked bays and jagged islands,
a macabre waltz of Mountain and Sea.
This land is the farthest extension of the Arab Peninsula,
the stony thumb poking the soft underbelly of Asia;
the tribal push outward was contained here
only by sheared off cliffs.
At the most extreme tip, Kumzar has nestled exposed
on the Straits of Hormuz, suffering
history's long passage.
As our boat speeds towards it and into rougher waters,
the towering bluffs don't even glance at our travails
as they shoulder the assault of pounding waves.
The primeval scene is raw and intimidating;
it is the wild frontier of the Arab heartland,
the edge of the world.
The boat's prow slams into wave after wave;
we hunch crosslegged on the deck, bracing as best
we can against the low sides of the heaving craft.
The Shihuh wrap their headcloths tighter round their faces,
each leans alone into the wild spray.
Occasionally the bluffs stand aside to reveal
hidden bays luring us into calm mysterious worlds,
but as we stubbornly power on, abruptly close again.
Taleb kneels upright at the engines to stare down the wind,
coaxing his craft through trough and crest,
only his eyes not masked by wrapped headcloth.
I shiver and strain to hear the prayers of ancient sailors
who dared to trespass into the beyond.
I raise my head when a muted roar rises above our own.
We round another headland
and suddenly confront a swarm of speedboats
skimming over the waves straight at us.
Double engines spew smoke and spray
as ten craft veer on either side
of our more clumsy boat;
weatherbeaten faces stare at us as they speed by.
The crews are all youngsters bundled into thin macks,
hair plastered back into wild shapes
by the salty rush of wind.
Hands raise in silent greeting,
a gold tooth glints in a sudden smile.
The fleet skims round the headland and disappears.
Ho! We look at each other on our boat
and burst out laughing;
all of us look just as manic as they had.
Those then were the speedboats which cross
the Straits to load goods for quick sprints
back into the fractured coast of Iran.
at arrival
We struggle past yet another bluff to find another bay,
and without warning our turbulent course changes.
The helmsman steers us into the placid waters and
summons Kumzar to rise slowly from distant shore.
The small village is squeezed between Mountain and Sea,
the usual decree of these stern lords of a harsh domain.
As we approach, Taleb cuts the engines to coast ahead
and the sudden silence is startling.
Slowly a thump thump thump is felt, and I realize that
deep chested drums are labouring to lure us to shore.
We anchor then in the shadow of older wooden boats.
As we unload, I discover that these working relics
display on their prows fierce visages cobbled from
bull's horns, shaggy skins and shells;
fetishes for men who challenge ancient demons every day.
(I wonder if they ward off more dangerous modern ones.)
Kumzar has survived the ages clutching the narrow sides
of a dry stream bed draining a wide steep canyon;
above the cliffs, ranges of mountains recede into distance.
Up the wadi, beyond last huts into jinn-infested shadows,
lies a deep well which offers the sweetest of water.
The bore was sunk by invaders half a millennium before,
still in use, still called the well of the portugezi.
The wadi functions as main thoroughfare of the village,
with alleys branching off between ramshackle houses.
Today the entire population is either seated on its sides
or dancing in the stony course, both men and women.
objects of purpose
The males wear the Omani white or coloured dishdasha
with headcloths carefully wrapped a la mode Shihuh.
The modestly clad women drape black scarves over
bright coloured dresses which shimmer as they dance;
some use the burqa mask to shield face from prying glance
and others glitter in the sun wearing the family gold.
Larger drums maintain a heavy beat while smaller tabl
weave lighter rhythms round each theme, inspiring
the several groups of dancers scattered down the wadi.
(My own pulse is easy prey to the practised skill
of this tribal music to stir men's souls.)
A clarinet somewhere raises a high-pitched tune.
Time-honoured poetry of the Kumzari, Shihuh and Arab
is chanted loudly by the drummers in the centre of
two lines of dancers, men facing women.
These repeat key verses while clapping and swaying,
stepping forward one, two, then backwards in unison.
Some sit to watch the spectacle as they smoke gedu,
Irani clay water pipes stuffed with strong tobacco,
while from inside the house compounds, sweet scents
rise from bukhur incense being burned on coals.
Next to the mosque, smoke and steam swirl as great
mounds of goat and rice are cooked for the wedding.
Excited by the festivities, children dart about underfoot
(as do the goats which evaded the slaughter),
and older youth imitate the chants and steps of elders
in the ageless ritual of tradition claiming new disciples.
I am astounded to discover that several other foreigners
have also managed to intrude into this remote preserve,
revolving in various trajectories around the wedding.
Observing them, I am fascinated by varied reactions
to the same situation, to the same people.
One visitor busies himself with labours of photography,
censoring all modernity interfering with quaint vision,
no interest in the Kumzari except as flat objects.
Another old man is quite interested, but to enshrine them
as objects of a different purpose;
convert to Arabism, he flounces about in Saudi thobe,
declaiming loudly to amazed villagers in grossly
accented Arabic how enamoured he is of Musandum.
Yet another inglizi, with no ability in the local tongue,
is quietly observing and interacting with the Kumzari
as though with real people, as though with equals.
The temptation to transform others and their cultures
into objects of purpose is as dangerous as it is easy;
objects cannot be animated as living, breathing beings.
The guilt party inadvertently dehumanises himself...
of gestures and change
There is a tap on my shoulder as I sit chin in hand.
It is young Mohammed from the day before,
the shurta whose urge to please had initiated
this sequence of events, his wide grin still shining.
Good, I'm glad you come. And you find your friend!
He greets our salty companions and
immediately shepherds us towards his house.
Along the way he takes my hand in his, an unabashed
friendly gesture to lead me along the narrow alley.
His family hosts us then for the wedding lunch
delivered to each house from the huge cauldrons;
afterwards, while most stretch out to nap in the majlis,
I sip tea and muse at this compulsion of hospitality.
The refreshing aspect of the Arab villager is that
his generosity is frequently so uncalculating,
a ritual from which to earn grace, not advantage.
The village had formed a colourful procession
led by drums and bagpipe and pendants, followed by
the groom himself dressed in formal best.
The defile marches the young man looking slightly dazed
to the end of the bay where his friends supervise
his ritual washing blessed with prayers and incense.
Many of the women in the procession carry fetish objects
to bring good fortune to the new couple;
I enquire about mysterious eggs concealed in some hands,
but my companions don't see fit to respond.
I enjoy the celebration, but unwelcome thoughts intrude
of portents of change on the horizon.
The Kumzars of our shrinking world
will be modernised and globalised and sanitised.
The advent of the modern era buys progress,
but the price of the newly minted common culture is
to condemn the varied remnants of a rich history
of peoples and customs to a slow demise.
The drums and chants quicken on the shore of Kumzar,
a sore lament stirs in me.
