Spends a memorable night in Oman’s stark, sandy interior.
Sharon Stephenson
THE SIZE of the poo isn’t reassuring.
‘‘It’s too big for a goat, too small for a donkey and nothing like a camel’s,’’ says my guide Suliman, prodding the hard, treaclecoloured lump with his sandal.
‘‘I don’t think it’s leopard or wolf season, but you never know,’’ he adds, in what I later realise is his wind-up-the-gullible-journalist voice.
By the time Suliman has worked his way through a list of the possible more ferocious owners of the scatological deposit, I’m ready to barricade myself in the posh tent that’s my accommodation for the night.
As it turns out, the only thing to fear in Wahiba Sands, a 12,500-kilometre expanse of desert in Oman’s stark interior, is Suliman’s sense of humour.
We’re two hours from Nizwa, Oman’s bustling former capital, but it feels so remote, we could be on the Moon. On the drive here, the view outside our 4x4 is a continuous film of burnt orange sand, whipped into meringue-like peaks. The unnerving emptiness is relieved only by the occasional camel padding silently across the hot sand and herds of goats foraging amid the scarce vegetation.
‘‘It’s like watching the desert channel,’’ a laughing Suliman says.
I’m awoken from my stupor when we stop at a remote garage in an even more remote town to let down the tyres. This, apparently, is standard practice in the desert, giving our vehicle the traction it needs to ‘‘bash’’ the spectacular sand dunes.
As the tarmac wears itself out, I spot a camel, safety tied down in the back of a pick-up truck, nonchalantly travelling backwards. I urge Suliman to speed up so I can take a photo of it and as we overtake, I’m rewarded with a pitying look not only from the camel but also its owner. But heck, it’s not something I see in Wellington every day.
Even though April is still technically Oman’s ‘‘cooler’’ season, we arrive at Desert Nights Camp to heat so intense, I feel like a potato in a microwave. But cold flannels and tiny cups of traditional khawa coffee, which come with lashings of cardamom, help to take the edge off.
Desert Nights Camp is one of only three in Wahiba Sands and its newest. It was only 25 years ago that Oman’s borders were opened to tourists and because the government has no desire to follow its glitzy neighbour, Dubai, it has sensibly embraced the concept of sustainable tourism.
‘‘We don’t want to litter Wahiba Sands with camps,’’ says Anurin Jansen, general manager of Desert Nights Camp. ‘‘This is the home of the Bedouin people and we have to walk a tightrope between keeping their home the way it’s always been and introducing guests to the magic of the desert.’’
Sustainable doesn’t, of course, have to mean shabby. Desert Nights Camp translates a five-star boutique hotel into 30 Bedouinstyle ‘‘tents’’, dotted around a fenced square of silken sand. Made from biodegradable materials that keep cool in summer, they come with airconditioning, showers and the kind of tasteful Persian rugs I’ve long wanted for my own house, but could never afford. It’s hardly the conditions Lawrence of Arabia would have had to put up with and I silently thank whoever invented air-conditioning.
After the third shower of the day, we set out across the desert, passing a man wearing a crisp white dishdasha (traditional robe), seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Surely no-one could, or would, live here? But rising out of the hectares of nothingness, like a mirage, are two simple open-air lean-tos made from date palms where we’re welcomed by Salma, a Bedouin woman, her daughter and two granddaughters. The men of the family are out rounding up the goats, she tells us, as she serves us a mountain of dates and khawa coffee.
Although it will never replace the long black in my affections, the spicy beverage is oddly addictive. There’s also a definite etiquette to drinking it, which can trip up firsttimers: once you’ve finished your coffee, you’re supposed to return the cup to your host, shaking it. Simply handing the cup back is a request for it to be filled and failure to drink the refill would be seen as rude. Common is the visitor who’s left a Bedouin home having erroneously consumed far too much caffeine.
On the way back to camp, Suliman unleashes his inner Jeremy Clarkson and throws the four-wheel drive around like a maniac, surging up steep inclines and sliding down the other side. Fear is clearly a word not in the Omani dictionary, but as my stomach and mouth switch places, I realise that it’s very much a thing in my world. Still, it’s nice to see a 4x4 being used on something other than suburban streets.
An hour before dusk falls, we drive to the ridge of dunes overlooking the camp and sink our feet into the sand with several other guests. Sipping cold drinks and nibbling on spicy almonds, we watch the endlessly billowing dunes fade from pale honey to paprika-red as the sun sinks.
Back at camp, dinner is Omani lamb, cooked in a traditional shua oven and eaten under the stars to the soundtrack of Bedouin musicians who pluck slowly at stringed instruments. The inky black darkness is so thick, I could almost cut it with a knife, and even with a torch I have a hard time finding my tent. But it’s strangely peaceful and I have the best sleep I’ve had in ages.
The next morning, on the way to breakfast, I watch a train of camels snake across the sand in single file, on their way to whatever it is camels do all day. Suliman asks if I’d like to ride one and before I know it, I’m perched atop Jamal, a beautiful 3-year-old with the longest lashes this side of a Maybelline advert.
Nothing can prepare you for the way a camel suddenly raises itself from a kneeling position, a sudden forward then backward lurch. Thankfully, it’s slightly easier to stay on board, although with no stirrups and only two thin ropes to hold onto, it’s not as secure as I’d hoped. Still, my half-hour saunter across the sandy carpet is glorious, and I can image how the early Bedouin lived, travelling at dawn and dusk to avoid the heat.
Halfway back to camp, Jamal decides it’s time for a toilet stop and that’s when I discover that the mysterious deposit that greeted me on my arrival did, in fact, begin life with a camel. The writer was a guest of Sultanate of Oman Tourism (tourismoman.co.nz) and Emirates (emirates.com)