Soup with ants and eggs of turtles

On our resting day in Muscat we search for a cheaper hotel, but have to give up. We throw ourselves into the old soukh at the harbour, where heavenly scents of frankincense caress our organs of smell and handsomely shaped, silver daggers ogle from attractive glass show-cases.
Our hotel room is supplied with a television, that, to our dismay, tells us there are new kidnappings in Yemen. Maybe it’s just the way it has to be that we are forced to skip this dangerous country, dangerous especially to vulnerable cyclists.
Via a friend of Major Ahmed from Fujairah (see: UAE, On our way to paradise) we come into contact with Ali, who works for the Ministery of Education of Oman. He invites us for a drive through Muscat and surroundings. While we whiz comfortably through mountain valleys, along the luxury Bustan Palace Hotel to the diving centre, he calls his fellow road users ‘kelb’ (dog) and grumbles at the Asian foreigners in his country. Obviously Omani government officials don’t have to follow courses about integrity, like in the Netherlands.

We have decided to limit our visit to Oman to the northern part of the country. From the capital we continue our journey direction southeast and pass several villages with complicated Arab names with which we won’t bother you. It turns out that we are a major attraction for people, not only because we travel by bicycle, but also because not many tourists come here. A new highway is under construction along the coast, a highway that will rise high above cliffs and wadi’s. We follow the old unpaved path through the interior. The path is of a poor quality with some very steep passages in a breathtaking landscape.
Just after Fins we find a beautiful spot between rock cliffs and fast running black crabs on the pebble beach. We make a campfire, splash in the sea water that lights up with fluorescent algae and count the stars that fall out of our roof. In this way we try to forget about the gnawing restlessness of the day; my saddle broke after thirty kilometres which resulted in me sitting askew and uncomfortably on my bike for the rest of the day. The bearings of Peter’s rear wheel started to produce fearsome noises today, and we don’t have the right tools to investigate and fix it.
In some miraculous way ants have made a nest in one of Peter’s rear bags; dozens of small dead bodies float in the noodle soup, so we do have some meat on our plates after all today.

After Qalhat we visit the worn out remnants of the 14th century village of Bibi Mariyam, that was visited by Marco Polo in its best time. Polo was excited about the place. Unfortunately it is only partly accessible due to restorations; almost everywhere in Oman we encounter restoration barriers and scaffolds. We are too early, or far too late.
In Sur we visit the harbour police to ask for a quiet place where we can pitch our tent. Half an hour of undecidedly discussions with a lot of raising of voices follow, after which we are being referred to a small fishing beach beyond the corniche, with a lovely view of the sweet village of Al Ayjah at the other side of the bay.

We take a day of rest here, visit the Sunaysilah Castle in vain.... because it’s closed due to restorations and have a look at the old ship-yard of Sur where nowadays only occasionly a wooden dhow is being built. By hand and without a blue print, a centuries old tradition. Real art.

Normally the seventy-five kilometres to Ras Al Hadd pose no problem at all, were it not that we have to fight a tough head wind along the ocean and we can only make a little speed. Peter has shoved my saddle to the front in the saddle-clamp so I can sit a bit less uncomfortable. The ticking and creaking sounds from Peter’s rear wheel gets worse by the day.
It’s Christmas Day, we cycle because we don’t have a real choice and alas, what difference does it make what one does on Christmas Day. In the afternoon and worn out we arrive in Ras Al Hadd at one of the most beautiful fortresses of Oman. We cycle around it and look at the umpteenth renovation activities. A helpful man tries to get us into the castle, but the key of the gate is not to be found. In a phone booth we call Peter’s parents to wish them a merry Christmas. It’s very unreal to hear their voices and before we know it’s over and we only hear the beeping sounds of the cut-off connection. Then we inform about the location of the turtle beach, which turns out to be forteen kilometres to the south.

Between September and December every year thousands of sea turtles come to lay their eggs in the moist sand of the Ras Al Jinz beach, that’s safely clamped in between high, whimsical rocks. We pitch our tent at the government campsite, where the new lavatory visibly and smellably has never been cleaned since it was built. That night we walk to the gathering place at the beach, together with dozens of Omani and foreign tourists that have emerged out of nowhere. In the pitch dark two guides take us to a special episode of National Geographic.
Puffing and gasping, a one and a half metre long turtle is busy digging a hole with her enormous swimming paws, that outstandingly function as shovels as well. When the hole is about one metre deep, she hangs her backside above it and we see the first glimmering ping-pong balls gliding down. Imperturbable she keeps going on for hours giving life, until more than a hundred snow-white eggs have filled the hole.
Slowly but very carefully she shovels sand over her eggs, until the pit has disappeared completely.

What a fantastic timing. New life, on Christmas Day.