Arriving in Muscat

One thing I don't want to forget is what it is like arriving in Muscat after a vacation. It takes 20 hours to make it from the Philadelphia International Airport to Muscat. By the time I arrive, my feet are swollen, my hair is greasy, and my cloths have been on for 35 hours.

We walk down the stairs of the airplane to a shuttle bus. It feels a little bit like walking through an oven, even at 10pm. As soon as we step inside the airport there is a race to get a good place in the lines. But, even if I end up in the back it is okay because it is good people watching. There are always lots and lots of Indian men in khakis and plaid short sleeve dress shirts, which is a uniform for Indians the way jeans and a T-shirt is a uniform for Americans. I see tiny old Indian women wearing saris and heavy gold jewelry. They are careful about covering their legs and sometimes their hair but even an old women will show her midriff. There are Arabic men and women, wearing lots of perfume. The women are covered head to toe in black, but the hems of their cloaks are decorated with decadent gemstone designs. They usually have really fancy purses, things that look gaudy to my eye. There are also Brits scattered in the crowd and they look very tall and big. Also they usually look old and rich. Oil workers.

We go through immigration and customs and collect our luggage. The airport has a steril feel the way an airport usually does. Fluorescent lights. Muted tones. White walls. Then after the last baggage screening, you step through sliding doors and suddenly there are 100 million indian men pressed up against a velvet rope, staring at you as you walk down the "red carpet" of international arrivals. And there is noise. And the smell is a mixture of cleaning fluid, body odor, and strong perfumes.

I walk to the back of the crowd and look for Mahmood, our driver. I find him and we step out of the airport into the oven/steam bath of a Muscat night, and make our way to the car. Mahmood will patiently have a conversation with me in Arabic. It is a pretty basic conversation - How is your family? How was vacation? How long is the flight from America? Wow that is so long! My speech is always peppered with umms and errs and hand motions, but still it's a conversation. In Arabic!

Finally Mahmood drops me off at the staff house. This is in a posh residential neighborhood, full of large white houses, palm trees and fuchsia bougainvillea. I walk in, check the list of who is traveling through Muscat to see if there is anyone fun, and then I drag my stuff upstairs. If Pankitch is around he will share some dinner with me. He is a big, friendly, energetic guy from south India. He has very limited English. The last time he was explaining what's for dinner, he frowned and patted his head while searching for a word... "err.... Head! Head.. Fish head". Usually it is some form of rice and fish curry, and it is always VERY spicy.

Before I zonk out, I'll get a cup of tea and step outside or go up to the roof. I love the roof. The house has two levels of roof. I have to climb a ladder to get to the highest part, but then I can see over the tops of all the houses. I see the moon, the mountains, the ocean, and a few minarets that top the neighborhood mosques. Sometimes I see other people hanging out on their roof. I can look down on the street which is bathed in the eerie light of the street lamps. Sometimes there's a cat prowling, or a pair of Pakistani men walking, or a car driving by. Sometimes the guys working on the construction project next door are sitting around a campfire eating dinner.

It's nice, I like it.