The laughing scaffolds

On Boxing Day we cycle to the south along the Gulf, in the direction of As Siwayh. The route gets flatter more and more and reminds us of the Sahara Desert in Egypt: a black desert, a red desert, eroded limestone figures, high dunes with sharp rims and dunes that rub against the mountains. Desert ships follow us with their eyes and the sand lizards here have flat, broad heads, as opposed to the peaky muzzles of the Namibian lizard.

After 68 kilometres the road turns inland. For the first time in twelve days we have a tail wind and suddenly we sit on our bicycles singing, laughing and whistling. What a difference in velocity and effort. The wind freshens to a storm that causes gusts of sand and dust blowing across the road and gives us wings. After six hours and one hundred and twenty kilometres we find a sheltered place for the tent behind a high wall, where we fiddle the sand out of ears and eyes.

The next day everything is how it used to be: the wind has turned its direction and comes from the west. With the sea behind us there is no choice but fighting. Yesterdays beautiful scenery has changed into dull plains in which an occasional acacia looms. Today is the day of finds: a khandura (men’s dress), knife, a pair of scissors, spanner, tubes of glue, lighters, caps, a tea-cosy and twenty three pairs of brand-new children’s socks. We take the glue for Paul, the socks for Marleen’s orphanage and I tear some parts of the khandura to use as cleaning rags. Just after Al Mintarib we find one of the oldest places to sleep of our whole journey: a partly collapsed old fortress made of clay. We pitch the tent in the inner court and use two chambers for toilet and wash place.

Two days later and exhausted we reach Nizwa, where we take a hotel room for two nights. We have to wash our clothes and rest, if only for a day.

It’s Friday, market day in Nizwa. From far and near farmers travel to the central situated town to buy or sell goats, sheep and cows. Just before the Arabian slaughter-feast of Eid it is busier than usually. Men, dressed in khandura and wearing the everlasting fez on their heads, women wearing veils and masks, stand in a big circle in which the cattle is being led to put up for auction. At the top of their voices men shout and negotiate the price of the living flesh that will be cut into pieces within two weeks. Every now and then the crowd shatters when a clumsy cow gets horny or fed up with the bustle.

We saunter through the soukhs which in Nizwa are sorted by product, and buy a kilo of sweet dates for two euro’s. And imagine our amazement: the fortress of Nizwa is renovated and open for the public! The restoration has completely been done in the old way and by using the original materials. The tower’s diameter is forty metres and is the largest of the country. It offers a nice view at the mosque, the city, date plantations and the falajes, the old stone-made drains to irrigate the trees.
At a bakery we buy a tempting, round cake that we consume in five minutes. And, after all the cycling, our hunger still isn’t appeased.

The tar road to Bahla is narrow and busy. Some car drivers seem to want to kill us by passing at a few centimetres. The hilly landscape is not very exciting and our enemy, the wind, keeps on turning iressolutely around us. We cannot suppress a sour smile in Bahla, when we see the huge fortress surrounded by... restoration scaffolds. Of the twenty fortresses that we have seen in Oman, about sixteen are being renovated and closed for the public. Not that we want to visit them all, but the Bahla fortress: yes. Alas.

We really feel ratty after our short break in Bahla. The wind has taken a final decision and comes at full speed straight from in front. Already after four kilometres we are totally fed up with it; with ten kilometres an hour we hardly proceed, the sand is creaking between teeth and chains and discouraged we leave another famous fortress, that of Jabreen, unvisited on the left. The sign next to the road does not indicate how far the castle lies from the junction, and we don’t want to risk another vain effort to find ourselves at a closed gate between laughing scaffolds.
Angrily we continue pedalling. Angry at the eternal wind, angry at ourselves, angry at all renovations and scaffolds, at Oman, at the hotels, at everybody...
Seven kilometres further we give up and ask a farmer for water, so we can pitch our tent somewehere on a sheltered place. However, old farmer Salem doesn’t want to let us go. He makes tea in his shed (he lives in Bahla) and presents dates from his own orchard. The most delicious dates we ever tasted: tamr-galas dates, that literally melt on our tongues. In our best Arabic we have a conversation, above all things about the fucking hawa (wind) that teases us daily. Son Khalifa joins us a little later and the four of us sit chatting on the big carpet, protected from the wind by the shed. During the hand-feet conversation we understand that Khalifa asks if we have seen the beautiful Jabreen Castle a couple of kilometres back. No, we say a little abashed.

Ten minutes later we are walking through the corridors of the tremendous fortress, sneak into secret chambers, smell the sweet sickly scent of the date cellars, and admire the kitchen, hamaams, decorated ceilings and ingenious water-drain system.

Ha ha, scaffolds! He laughs best who laughs last!