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Muscat, Muskrat, candlelight . . .
We declared some time ago that we had mastered the art of speed tourism, but it was a premature and boastful claim. This we learned at the Muscat Museum, overhearing another tourist firmly instructing his guide that he was to be shown only the most important items. And they were off, the total museum seen in the time it took us to examine just one of the dozens of beautiful cartographic 16th and 17th maps of Arabia and the various gulfs that touch its coasts. Each maps a work of art. Almost as fast, busloads of what appeared to be mainly Italian passengers from a visiting cruise ship whisked past us as we took time to absorb the displays of ancient weaponry, clothing and jewelry, paintings, and photographs of Muscat through the centuries. We have learned that an entire museum can be viewed fully in less than fifteen minutes, and it is clear that we will have to sharpen our act.
The Arabian Peninsula was originally dubbed Felix Arabia, loosely translated as Happy or Fortunate Arabia, and so it was for us. No sane person would have contemplated leaving Abu Dhabi, driving through this region without compass or map, and into Muscat, a city of between 1 and 2.5 million people, depending which guide book you read, each one with a reputation for erratic driving. But we did, and to complicate matters we learned en route that the person whose offer of accommodation we were going to take up was in Dubai and not due back for a week. But as luck would have it, we found a tourist map and, without a single complication, the Hotel Golden Oasis in Al Wadi al Kabir recommended by one of Jade’s workmates. At less than half the tariff it easily out measured the Sohar Beach Hotel in all facets; the room, staff, all a delight.
Muscat is described well in one reference as a “string of towns forming a sort of necklace sandwiched between the sea to the north and a very rocky, primeval-looking range of barren mountains to the south”, its harbour protected by a series of Portuguese forts perched high on the hills. Our first foray, towards old Muscat, found us at some very well maintained and obviously important buildings which turned out to be the Sultan, Qaboos bin Said’s Palace. Here’s us, wandering around, looking for a pathway to one of the forts, only to be told by a uniformed person where we were and that it was not the general practice to use the palace grounds for entry to a nearby fort. So we moved on, found a road tunnel through a hilly outcrop of rock, only to then find ourselves at the back entrance to the palace grounds. Snookered.
In two days it is only possible to scratch the surface of such a city, but scratch it we did. The Muttrah souk, alleyways of stalls of local handcrafts, jewelry, clothes, and spices, described in one travel site as appearing to have materialized straight out of Arabian Nights. We are travelling light and buying little, but Kaelene managed an Indian top and Marty a traditional Komah, an Omani cap which looks like a fez.
Also to see, the harbour and bays, white houses nestled against the hills, the Omani-French Museum, mosques and parks, and exquisite buildings along the waterfront.
Muscat certainly lived up to the imagery of some exotic far-away place. Just being there was enough.

Footnote: We have lost, inexplicably, more than seventy photos taken in Muscat, and so the accompanying photo display is not a good representation of the journey.