Oman (1): Muscat

An Unusual Linear Capital Interrupted by Rocky Hills

Arriving in Muscat

Oman

We stumbled through Muscat's sparkling new airport at what was for us three in the morning. The new terminal, operating since March, had been officially opened only yesterday to kick off the National Day celebrations. These celebrations would continue until the start of the Celebration for the Prophet's Birthday. Between them they would occupy most of our time in Oman

Oman is bigger than you think and covers the eastern half of the bottom of the Arabian Peninsula

Formalities were straightforward and we quickly found the young man sent to convey us to our hotel.

The airport is in Seeb, within the Muscat Metropolitan Area, but 30km from the centre. We travelled along a series of urban expressways, the traffic flowing freely. Driving was relatively disciplined and considerate, and most remarkably, no one used their horn. Anyone who has set ear on Cairo, Tehran or the cities of India will appreciate how bizarre this is.

Urban expressway, Muscat

Muscat is long and thin, squeezed between the sea and a line of low rocky hills. Sometimes the hills veer towards the coast and the city flows round them – or just come to a temporary halt. It hardly feels like a city at all*; there is no centre as such, just clumps of gleaming white low-rise buildings. We saw residential clumps, an administrative area, undeveloped areas, mosques, a shopping mall, the opera house, a clump of hotels, and another of chain restaurants – Costa Coffee, KFC, MacD, Subway, Nandos, Wagamama but nothing that looked Omani. Nowhere did we see a regular street, the sort you could walk down to look at the shops or compare the restaurants.

We reached our hotel, checked in, had breakfast and went to bed. Resurfacing around midday I had no idea where we were; our room - the bland functional space of mid-range hotels everywhere - gave no clue at all. The view from the window, though, was definitive.

Islamic centre and rocky hills from our hotel window, Muscat

The Sultan’s Yachts and Muttrah Souk

At 2 o'clock, showered and feeling almost human, we met Y in the lobby for a city tour.

You are never far from the sea in Muscat and we had hardly belted ourselves into Y’s huge, land cruiser than we were alighting at what was once the city's main port. It now provides mooring for two vessels I at first took to be cruise liners. 'The one in front is the Sultan's yacht,' Y told us. 'And the one behind?' 'Is his other yacht. It has his Ferrari and other toys on board should he want to play with them.' We were not supposed to take this entirely seriously.

The Sultan's yachts, Muscat

As we crossed the road to the Muttrah Souk Y apologised for taking us there at siesta time. The fragrant, heady scent of frankincense hung over the alleys, though few stalls were open. Not long ago this was a market for the people of Muscat, then one stall started aiming at the tourist market, then another and now it is almost all t-shirts and fridge magnets.

Muttrah Souk, Muscat

‘Old’ Muscat

Nearby is ‘Old’ Muscat, the settlement that donated its name to this vast straggle of not quite contiguous settlements, business districts and administrative areas. Almost nothing in Muscat, Y reminded us, is more than 45 years old (except for some of the residents) and that includes 'Old’ Muscat. Formerly an area of dilapidated dwellings, it has been demolished section by section and the slum-dwellers rehoused at the government’s expense. Like many Muscat houses they suggest that an Omani's home is, almost literally, his castle.

New dwellings in Old Muscat

In 1970 Sultan Qaboos dethroned his dad, a repressive old-school conservative who had kept the purse strings tightly drawn. Qaboos was and is far more liberal – insofar as an absolute monarch can be – swiftly abolishing slavery and using the country's oil wealth for the benefit of the people, as these houses testify. Y seemed genuinely impressed by his efforts and prepared to forgive the extravagance of two enormous yachts. With his 78th birthday (and Oman’s 48th National Day) next Sunday, the Sultan’s face was ubiquitous; with his toothy grin and white beard he smiled down from every available wall, like a better-groomed Richard Branson.

The Sultan grins down from a supermarket wall. At night the facade is lit up in the green, white and red national colours

Bait Al Zubair Museum, Old Muscat

The Bait Al Zubair museum in Old Muscat is a privately-owned collection of Omani artefacts and clothing with a stringent no photographing policy.

Much gold ornamentation for women was on show. Men wear silver, but the huge clunky bracelets looked impracticably heavy until Y pointed out they were hollow.

In days gone by every man wore a dagger and carried his rifle strapped to his back. Most families still keep a rifle at home though only, Y claimed, for target shooting. The curved Omani Khanjar - the knife is not as curly as the sheath - is deeply embedded in the culture, even appearing on the national flag.

Omani flag with Khanjar and crossed swords in the top left corner

The khanjar is still worn on formal occasions - we later encountered a group of elderly men arriving for a National Day dinner at our hotel in Nizwa, all wearing Khanjars. Their Khanjars, like those in the museum seemed more decorative than functional, the sheathes encased in beaten silver.

Y in his dishdash

There was also a display of clothing. Y may have called Sultan Qaboos 'liberal', but wearing a white dishdash is compulsory for government employees during working hours and students in class or lectures.  It is also worn voluntarily by many others; we never saw Y in anything but a gleaming white, freshly laundered, crisply ironed dishdash. The design is simple and there is minimal decoration (if any) except for a 15cm tassel hanging from the collar beneath the right ear. The museum’s collection included assorted regional variations like the Emirati dishdash which has a much longer tassel centrally placed. You may wear any colour hat, Y added, pointing to his cylindrical headgear, but the designs are always similar and the colours muted.

The women's clothing on display was brightly coloured and voluminous, though we found many women actually wear black. There was also a collection of veils and masks - no longer worn according to Y, though we would see several veiled women and one in a mask, but she was running a tourist tat stall and I suspect it was her USP. Throughout the trip we saw far fewer women than men, but Y was keen to point out that educational opportunities were the same for boys and girls at every level.

Across the yard was a preserved mudbrick house. The rooms were simple and the furnishings minimal but the most interesting room was the date store. Fresh dates are available for six months of the year, after that the surplus is stored for the ‘winter’; in the past it was sometimes the only food available. Stored in sacks on a specially channelled floor the dates ooze syrup (Y called it ‘date honey’) which is collected by the channels. It is immensely sweet, deeply date-y and utterly lovely.

We drank excellent Omani coffee and nibbled dates at a table outside. Omani coffee is made like Turkish coffee but filtered into a coffee pot onto cardamom, saffron and/or rose water and drunk unsweetened in tiny cups.

Al Alam Palace, Old Muscat

The Al Alam Palace is a couple of hundred metres away. As new as the rest of 'Old' Muscat, it was constructed in 1972 on the site of an older palace. The square outside was almost empty and there was little obvious security. The King does not live here – he has a palace in his walled farm north of the city – but uses it for entertaining visiting dignitaries. It has hosted King Juan Carlos of Spain and Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands, but stands empty most of the time.

The entrance to Al Alam Palace, Muscat

The other side of the palace is by a harbour overlooked by two 16th century Portuguese forts.

The Al Alam Palace and the Portuguese Al Jalali Fort - Muscat's jail until 1970

Muscat Sunset Cruise

Y was concerned that we would be late for our 'sunset cruise' – which seemed odd at twenty to four - and whizzed us the short distance south to the harbour in Sidab. Here the hills approach the coast and the main part of the city is on the landward side. Sidab, crammed between the sea and the bare hills resembles a small seaside community rather than a suburb of a major city. Y's family live here, but there is no room for expansion so he and many of his generation have moved away.

We joined half a dozen other Europeans on a boat large enough for twenty and made our way out of the harbour past a moored dhow.

Dhow, Sidab Marina

The open sea was choppy and the boat bounced around as we turned South along the coast.

Outside Sidab harbour

We pottered along looking at the rock formations...

Heading south along the Muscat coast

.... and pulling into coves, some occupied by fishing villages...

Fishing village (within the Muscat Metropolitan area)

…while other were accessible only from the sea. In one is a graveyard, the last resting place of European sailors who died along this coast

Portuguese graveyard, Muscat coast

Resort hotels dominated some coves. The most spectacular on a promontory, its glass fronted guest accommodation connected by a lift to an almost sea level dining area. Further out was a hole in the rocks…

Resort Hotel, Muscat coast

….which we approached…

Approaching that hole in the rocks

….and slid through.

And coming out the other side

Oman became wealthy from gas and oil, but they are backing tourism as the next big earner and these coves are being made available to developers on advantageous terms. This coast could become like Sharm El Sheik, lined with all-inclusive resorts so people can holiday in Oman without ever visiting Oman. This cannot be the right way to go.

After a pleasant hour we turned and headed back. Our youthful captain opened up the throttle and the powerful outboard drove us through the choppy water at speed - and with some discomfort. We slowed after passing our starting point and at 5 o’clock we were in station to watch the sun set behind the coastal hills.

The sun thinking about setting

It slipped away surprisingly quickly. 'Bye, bye, see you tomorrow,' said our captain as the last rays flickered and he turned back South.

Bye, bye, see you tomorrow (Muscat 5.11pm)

The Sultan's Visiting Book, Al Alam Palace from the Sea

On the way back we dropped in to see Al Alam palace from the sea...

Al Alam Palace from the sea, Muscat

… the names of several hundred ships are painted on the rock beside the Jalali Fort. This semi-official graffiti is known as the Sultan’s Visiting Book and the names of British, Dutch, American and other ships have been painted since the practice started in the 19th century. The HMS Falmouth, prominent in the photograph below was the 9th ship of that name which visited in 1974, though the 8th HMS Falmouth was in the region 1940-1 escorting troop convoys from Karachi to Basra. (For more information see Lilian and Jan Schruers blog)

The Sultan's Visiting Book, Muscat

We returned to our berth as the brief twilight period faded

The light goes quickly once it starts to fade (Muscat 5.48pm)

Back at our hotel the restaurant offered only a buffet, but we found the 'Sportsman's Bar' (it had a pool table!) where we ordered a chicken biryani each (they were good but one between two would have been fine) washed down with a beer. Draft beers were over £7 for a 'full pint' but 500ml cans of Carlsberg were available for a less extortionate £4 - so we had one each. Getting a drink in Oman is difficult and expensive (it is not what my father would have called a ‘drinking man's country'). Hurrah for duty free, we thought, but this issue will need addressing if they are to create a successful Sharm El Sheik style coast.

15-Nov-2018

The Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque, Muscat

Before setting off towards Sur we visited the Sultan Qaboos mosque, probably Muscat's finest buildings, but open to infidels only before 11 in the morning, so we missed it yesterday.

The Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque, Muscat
It was crowded as there was a cruise ship in. The man in the white dishdash (centre) holding up a paddle with the number 11 is attempting to collect his bus load of cruisers

Designed by (often British based) Iraqi architect Mohammed Saleh Makiya, the mosque was built between 1994 and 2001 and was funded from the Sultan 's personal wealth - though a sceptic might ask where that wealth came from. The completed building was given to the nation, so at least the poor bloke doesn't have to pay for the upkeep, too. And that expense must be considerable; the building is immaculate as are the many surrounding gardens.

The garden by one of the minor minarets

With a huge dome, four minor and one major minaret, the mosque is far too big to photograph in its entirety, so here is a picture of a model we saw in the museum in Salalah.

The Qaboos Grand Mosque, Muscat (model in Salalah museum)

With our shoes removed and Lynne's head appropriately covered…

Lynne, properly dressed

…we entered the women's prayer hall. The main musalla can accommodate 6,500 male worshippers, there is space in the courtyards to push the total capacity to 20,000. The woman’s musalla has space for 750 and women can watch the proceedings in the main hall on one of the two television screens. Women should, of course, pray at home and only visit a mosque when travelling with their husbands. After decades of hard work, The Church of England’s treatment of women has arrived in the 20th, if not quite the 21st century, Roman Catholics are quietly fretting about entering the 19th while Islamic attitudes are marooned in the 16th. I find much to admire in Islam, but not its attitude to half the human race.

Women's Prayer Hall, Sultan Qaboos Mosque, Muscat

The courtyard and its arches are of gleaming Carrara marble…

Courtyard, Sultan Qaboos Mosque, Muscat

…but the main hall is breath-taking. It is not just that you are walking on what was the world’s biggest carpet (there is now a larger one in Abu Dhabi), nor that you are approaching the world’s biggest chandelier, it is the perfection of proportions, decoration and colour. We entered, looked up, stopped and gasped in unison.

Dome and chandelier, Sultan Qaboos Mosque, Muscat

The crowds made it difficult to get near the mihrab…

Mihrab, Sultan Qaboos mosque, Muscat

….but it is worth looking more closely at the decorations.

Detail of mihrab, Sultan Qaboos Mosque, Muscat

Squinches are the architectural tricks that allow hemi-spherical domes to sit on rectangular supports. Most mosques have them, many make features of them, but never more so than here.

Squinch, Sultan Qaboos Mosque, Muscat

But overall it is the sense of space that make the mosque feel special. Sadly, as a non-believer I can only imagine what it is like filled with 2,600 worshippers.

Sultan Qaboos Mosque, Muscat
One of the advantages of modern buildings is that you can hide the loudspeakers inside the columns!

I may have misgivings about Islam’s sexism, but it undoubtedly produces some of the world’s most beautiful buildings.

And with that thought we left the mosque and set off south to Sur…. see next post

*For those like me who appreciate a story told in numbers: Muscat has a population of 1½ million living at a density of 450 people/km². Typically, cities of a similar size are considerably more densely populated - Yekaterinburg 2,700/km², Phoenix 3,100/km² and nearby Abu Dhabi 1,200/km², while bigger cities are often in the range 10,000 - 20,000.

Oman, Kingdom in the Desert

Part 1: Muscat, an Unusual Capital
Part 2: Sur and Turtles
Part 3: Wadi Bani Khalid and the Wahiba Sands
Part 4: Ibra, Birkat al-Mawz and the Jebel Akhdar
Part 5: Nizwa
Part 6: Bahla, Jabreen, al Hamra and the Jebel Shams
Part 7: Misfat Al Abriyyin, Wadi Bani Awf and Nakhl
Part 8: Salalah and the South Coast
Part 9: Salalah, the City
Part 10: To the Edge of the Empty Quarter

The 11th Hour of the 11th Day of the 11th Month, 1918-2018

And so the centenary of the Great War, the War to End All Wars comes to its conclusion. This is a companion to my earlier posts, Ypres, Tyne Cot and the Menin Gate marking the start of hostilities in August 2014 and The Somme, One Hundred Years Ago Today on the 1st of July 2016.

This blog is primarily about our travels. Lynne and I have seen great religious monuments, like Angkor Wat and the Shwedagon Pagoda, monuments to power, like the palaces of Rajasthan, and monuments to love like the Taj Mahal. But we have also seen grimmer monuments and visited places that make you stop and think; the bombed-out streets of Mostar, the Killing Fields of Cambodia and the industrialised horror of Auschwitz all ask terrible questions about the nature of humanity. So does the cemetery strewn countryside of northern France.

And the Great War, the one that did not quite end all wars, has its monuments, too.

Canadian Memorial, Vimy Ridge

But the great monuments are not as moving as the graveyards which often lie beside them.

Canadian graveyard, Vimy Ridge

Throughout Britain and France and across the world there are memorials to those who died. The memorial in Harrogate is typical for a town of its modest size. It bears 721 names from the Great War….

War memorial, Harrogate

…and there is even one in São Brás de Alportel in the Algarve...

Memorial plaque on the council office, Sao Bras

...bearing the names of six Portuguese soldiers, five of whom died on the Western Front. Portugal sent 50,000 troops to France after declaring war on Germany in 1916.

Memorial plaque, Sao Bras

But perhaps this is a day for a traveller to be at home. Swynnerton in Staffordshire is today a one pub, two churches, one post office village (and we are lucky to still have our pub and post office) [2023 Update: No longer. The Post Office went a couple of years ago. I am happy yo say the pub still thrives] It has some 750 residents, most of whom (myself included) live on the 1970s housing estate, or the recent additions adjacent to it. In 1918 Swynnerton was far smaller, barely more than a hamlet, but it was an important hamlet as it contained Swynnerton Hall, home to Francis Fitzherbert, the 12th Baron Stafford (and now home to Francis Fitzherbert, the 15th Baron Stafford - economising on names helps when you have a big house to run). It had the same pub and churches but rather more businesses than the present village.

It also has a war memorial, on a patch of grass outside the parish church of St Mary.

Swynnerton war memorial

Thirteen names are inscribed on the pedestal. A couple of years ago Lynne did some research on these names for a presentation on ‘Swynnerton through the Wars.’ Thanks to that research we can zoom in on two of the names.

Charles Wood

Captain Charles Wood on the Swynnerton War Memorial

Charles Wood was the younger son of Mr. and Mrs. E. J. W. Wood of Meece House, a mile outside Swynnerton. His father Edward John Wood was a successful pottery manufacturer and a distant relative of Josiah Wedgwood.

Charles had been a territorial officer since 1909 and was sent to France in 1914 with the First Battalion, Royal Welch (sic) Fusiliers. He was soon mentioned in dispatches and his battalion spent January and February 1915 dug in on the Ypres sector. They then moved just across the French border to participate in General Haig’s spring offensive. The offensive started on the 10th of March with an attack on the French village of Neuve Chappelle.

Although intelligence reports suggested Neuve Chapelle was thinly defended, taking the village required three days and cost 17,000 lives. Captain Wood died on the second day.

The attack gained less than a square mile of territory, but was hailed by banner headlines at home proclaimed it a great step on the road to victory.

Wood and his older brother had been brought up in Meece House. His father had all the trappings of commercial success; a household of loyal servants, tenant farmers on his land and a chauffeur-driven Sunbeam. The car was a familiar sight at St Mary’s where he was churchwarden. He presumably expected Charles to inherit both his pottery and his position in local and county society but any plans they had ended at Neuve Chapelle. Charles’ older brother John, who had always been in poor health, died 8 months later in November 1915.

Their grief-stricken father Edward did not survive much longer, but before he died, he and their mother placed a memorial on the road outside Meece Hall.

Wood memorial outside Swynnerton Training Camp

Charles’ name is not mentioned; it is a memorial to all who gave their lives…

Inscription on the memorial outside Swynnerton Training Camp

…but they also placed a memorial window to both brothers in St Mary’s church.

Wood Memorial, St Mary's Swynnerton

In the Second World War, Swynnerton became host to a huge munitions factory. The ‘Swynnerton Roses’, the 30,000 women who worked there, are commemorated in the small rose garden in front of the memorial. For a time Meece Hall, the home of a young man who died in the War to End All Wars was occupied by executives of the armaments factory as they sought ever more efficient and deadly ways to win another war just a generation later. In peacetime, the abandoned house became dilapidated and was demolished in the 1990s.

Swynnerton Roses garden and Wood memorial

George Bennett

George Bennett on the Swynnerton war memorial

George Bennett was born in Swynnerton in the spring of 1889, two doors away from the Fitzherbert Arms.

George Bennett's birthplace, Swynnerton

His family had worked on the land for generations but his father had become the local wheelwright. When George was born his mother already had by two young children, Elizabeth and John. Like many old Swynnerton families (including the aristocratic Fitzherberts) the Bennetts were Catholics and worshipped at Our Lady of the Assumption

Catholic Church, Swynnerton which also faces the war memorial
Swynnerton Hall is in the background

George trained as a wheelwright with his father…

Swynnerton's old smithy and wheelwright's shop just across the road from the Bennett's cottage.
Idle for many years they are waiting for someone to find a use for them.

… and became engaged to Beatrice Gosling, eldest daughter of the landlord of the Fitzherbert Arms.

The Fitzherbert Arms, Swynnerton
The extention may have come after Gerorge's time, the large windows are a very recent addition 

When war came, he joined up and served first with the Royal Horse Artillery and then with the Ammunition Column of the Royal Field Artillery. They were engaged in battles across France, but in 1917 were stationed at Poperinge in Belgium, seven miles from Ypres.

George’s job was to take ammunition to the front line, a difficult enough task without the rains that forced heavily-laden horse-drawn carts to sink to their axles.

On the 8th July 1917 George wrote to his fiancée Beatrice,

My dear lover,

I know you will be looking forward to hearing from me, hoping you are all well enjoying the best of health. Well Darling, the weather is broken here now having a fair amount of rain, & a fine very heavy thunder storme.

Well Darling, I’m wondering how you are getting on with the harvest, I do hope you will have good weather, & be able to get a little assistance. The crops behind the firing line lines are looking well, the heavy storme have battered the corn down badly. The crops are much the same as in Blighty not so much grazing land, a good few hops being grown here, also a little chicory which the French People use for the coffee, they don’t drink much tea, you don’t see the fireplaces like ours they have stoves, which stand out nearly in the centre of the room.

We are well behind the firing line here, but Mr Fritz sends us a few souvenirs over pretty often with his long rangers, however I am have thankful to say, he has not got the right range, I expect I shall be going up with Ammn to night, it is indeed the worst Battle Front that I have had since I been out here, however I live in hope that the one above will guide us safely through.

Well Dear, I wonder what you are doing at this present moment, you are absent in body angel, but never absent in mind, how I am longing to be with you, & to comfort to love and to cherish you, no matter how long we have to be apart, you will always have a good true lover, & God does not grant us, to be united in this world, may we be united in the next.

I could tell you a great deal, but us you know I have not the privilege, however amidst all things, I am, thankful to say I am in good health & spirits, & living in hope of returning to you. Well Darling, I am looking forward to hear from you, & to know that you are all well, also please forward me your dear Brother’s address I have not heard from him again. I don’t think he is very far away from here.

Cigs are cheaper here than in Blighty. I should have written you a few days ago only I have been waiting to get one of these envelops, we are only allowed one once a fortnight, you see dear our business is not so exposed in one of these. I am just going to write my dear Father and Mother a few lines, hoping they are well, & not worrying about me.

Well angel cheer up, I am alright, and having a good life & considering the facilities, when I hope we may all meet together again & live in happy days. In conclusion I desire you to give my kind regards to all at home, & hope to hear from you soon.

Au-soir & God bless you darling

Pray for me

Your Ever loving boy

George x x x x

With Heaps of hugs and kisses
Somewhere in France but near the border of ( )
There are fore of us in the house
One Catholic besides my self
The other are harness cleaning. It does not seem like a Sabbath day.

George was killed the following day. He was 28 years old

During her research Lynne made contact with Gabrielle, who now lives in Buckinghamshire but is the grand-daughter of Beatrice Gosling and her husband John Bennett, George’s elder brother whom she married in 1922. Gabrielle showed Lynne a copy of the letter and kindly allowed it to be used in 'Swynnerton through the Wars' and has agreed to its use here. The typescript reproduces the spelling, punctuation and little slips of George’s handwritten original.

On the 9th of July 1924, Beatrice Bennett, née Gosling. gave birth to a son – Gabrielle’s father - whom they named George. Sadly, John Bennett died of head injuries in 1926 after a bicycle accident. Beatrice never remarried but she brought up her son, enjoyed her grandchildren and attended mass regularly. She died in 1990 aged 99.

War is not about politicians, generals and armies, it is about people. Without fear or favour it kills the rich and well-connected as easily as the humble wheelwright - and it destroys families.

The Great War killed 10 million soldiers on all sides and 8 million civilians. Each one deserves to be remembered like Charles Wood and George Bennett.

Would it have been worth it had it been the War to End All War? Perhaps, but it wasn’t.

Never Again

One final thought: it is easy to blame politicians for wars, but when war was declared in 1914 people across Europe were out on the streets cheering. The nationalism that caused the wars of 1914 and 1939 is on the rise again, in Russia and the USA, in Hungary, Italy, Germany and other European countries, including here, at home. Never again is up to us, all of us.

WW1 Centenary Posts

Ypres, Tyne Cot and the Menin Gate(1914/2014)
The Somme, One Hundred Years Ago Today (1916/2016)
The Eleventh Hour of the Eleventh Day of the Eleventh Month(1918/2018)