Ole Oman!

While Dubai was fun and engaging, any destination with food court bearing mega malls was not quite the type of travel for which I was looking. Thankfully, my traveling companion would agree. Like two ships (actually airplanes) passing in the night, Jim prepared to return home while my friend Jason arrived after spending a week in London. It was good times on my amigo train as we prepared to head off to the lesser known country of Oman.

Before Jim’s plane departed at 3 a.m. on Saturday night, Jim crash landed his head on a pillow in our room. Setting my alarm so Jim could wake-up at 12:30, I knew I was setting myself up for no sleep. Along with my chronic light sleeper condition, I also have “pre-alarmitis middle of the nightus”, which in non-medical speak means if I know that I or someone in my proximity has to get up at an odd hour (i.e. middle of the night or very early morning), my mind will stay awake waiting for the time to come to ensure that I, or someone else, in this case Jim, does not miss their plane.

Alarm set, Jason zonked out immediately and Jim seemed to catch his REM stride fully clothed (even with shoes) on the uncovered couch bed mattress. I, on the other hand, was in the middle twin bed, tossing and turning, counting the minutes one by one as if waiting for Santa Clause to arrive. It was made worse by the fact that neither Jim nor Jason stirred from their deep slumbers. And if that wasn’t enough, just to ensure I didn’t even pretend to sleep, flat on his back, Jason began to play his epiglottis horn so loudly and generously on the inhale AND exhale, that I had to pulled a pillow over my head, half trying to drown out the noise and half trying to smother myself to sleep. I was officially in sleepless in Dubai.

Sometimes the good thing about time is that it passes, but most of the time I find myself searching for ways to slow it down or stop it altogether. On this night, I was mentally ushering time forward, at least to 12:30 so that I could stop thinking about Jim’s impending airport departure which no doubt would cause some rustling in the room.

When 12:30 finally rolled around, the alarm sounded. I had not slept a wink. Jim popped up, grabbed his bags and was gone in minutes. Deep in another world, Jason remained undisturbed and added a bonus “cooing” sound to his sleeping band repertoire. With Jim gone, I felt I had a better chance to get some shut-eye, however there was a lingering problem, we had an early morning flight to Muscat, Oman requiring us to leave the hotel no later than 5 a.m.. Now I was pressured to get to sleep which really flared up my pre-alarmitis middle of the nightus.

The remaining 4 hours before the alarm was set to go off would be ten minutes of sleep per hour interrupted by 230 minutes of tossing and turning. It seemed that even my alarm was sleeping, comfortable and confident in knowing that it would awaken at the designated time. To add insult to insomnia, as Jason reported happily the next morning, he would have his best night’s sleep in years.

When the alarm sounded at 4:40 a.m., I was waiting to silence it with a swift Cool Hand Luke maneuver. I popped out of bed, half glad to leave my sleep deprivation chamber and half disgruntled knowing that the “chamber” was also the solution for my REM woes. Within minutes, we were in front of the hotel, hailing a taxi to Sharjah, one of the Emirates next to Dubai. Initially, I felt alert and ready to tackle the trans-country hop, however, as the hours, even minutes wore on, my eyes couldn’t fight the closing bell. Ten minutes into the taxi ride on pre-dawn desert highway, my head was doing the bobble and shuffle with intermittent jerks as my heavy head swung side to side on my lazy neck.

Buckled into our seats on Air Arabia, a recording came over the loudspeakers as we taxied toward the runway. “Allah, something, something, something, Allah and more something,” that I did not understand, mostly because my Arabic was not up to speed. But if it had been, I would have understood that this was not the monotonous and obligatory safety regulations being read, rather, it was a prayer for a safe flight. This worked for me as I secretly say a prayer everytime I speed down the runway anyhow (I guess it’s not a secret anymore). Now the whole plane was praying. This flight really was on a wing and a prayer.

Arriving safely under God’s watch in Muscat, Jason and I formulated an impromptu plan at the small airport. After briefly searching for a bus to the center of town, the mid-day heat perspired us into negotiating a taxi to the center of town. Twenty or so kilometers later, after dosing off repeatedly and despite the taxi driver complaining for the entire ride that we were paying too little fare, we arrived in Muscat, a modest (and odorful) fishing town hugging the Gulf of Oman.

Our second encounter with an Omani (after the taxi driver) national led us out of Muscat almost immediately or so we thought. While checking into a small, but habitable room, I noticed some brochures behind the counter. Before signing into the room, I inquired about car rentals and self-drive desert safaris. Within minutes, the man (whose name I never got) had booked us a 4x4 and a night at a desert safari camp. All we had to do was get to a gas station in the middle of the desert by 3:30 p.m. to meet a guide and we would be set. While this meant we would miss the Superbowl later that night/morning, the 49ers weren’t in it, so I was off the hook for the home team.

Despite my eyeballs threat to strike, I hopped behind the wheel of the white Toyota 4x4 and we sped out of town with an idea of the general direction. Afterall, there are not that many roads in Oman so how hard can it be to find our way? The answer to that question would not be revealed for several hours, but looking back, the answer is that without a local in the car, even with a map, navigating around Oman is like using the North Star to guide you on a cloudy night. Road signs were prevalent near town, but of little use as none of them displayed our destination and British influence still reared its ugly head as roundabout after roundabout left me dizzy and wondering how to get out of dodge.

Less than an hour into the drive, we figured we were headed in the right direction on one of four major roads into and out of town. Jason took over at the wheel as the sleep piper laid claim to my eyelids. I’m not sure how long I was asleep, but gauging by how unrested I felt, it wasn’t long before Jason woke me to explain that he thought we were headed in the wrong direction. This was a trifecta of bad news. First we were going to miss our rendezvous with our guide in the middle of the desert and second, there was no one within fifty miles that could tell us how to get where we wanted to go. But third and most importantly, my plan for sleep was thwarted once again.


Hour after hour, roundabout after roundabout, Jason and I read all of the signs into and out of Muscat three more times each. We retraced our steps over and over again with the same determination as when you check the same drawer over and over again looking for that something you know you placed in there and despite having opened the drawer once already, you open it three more times to make sure it is not playing hide and seek on you.

And while I am reluctant to admit to it, yes, we stopped at a gas station. In fact, there was little debate the issue. We rationalized that we needed to use the bathroom and pick-up drinks for our long desert drive. Unfortunately, even with the maps sold at the station and assistance of the two cashiers, our stop revealed nothing more than the fact that gas stations around the world are becoming more and more alike. If you kidnapped me and dropped me in the middle of this particular convenience store, I would have first guessed Barstow, then Louisville or maybe even Omaha.

Back on the road, silence sat between us in the front seat after hours of driving and talking in circles. When the digital clock display in the dashboard read 3:00, we knew that we had missed our desert guide and most likely our chances to spend the night with a Bedouin family. Returning to Muscat proper disappointed, we found a room for the night, however before nightfall arrived, I laid my head to rest for an afternoon nap while Jason went out to explore the nearby beach.

My head still fuzzy waking out of my afternoon nap, Jason came bursting in the door at midnight. Actually it was only six in the evening, but it felt like midnight to my whacked circadian rhythms. He was excited as the front desk hauncho, hereinafter referred to as "hauncho", had put him in touch with a local guide (aka "friend that can show you around for cash") that could take us into the desert the following morning for an overnight trip. That meant one of two things, either 1) hauncho and the guide were going to take everything we had and leave us to die in the middle of the desert or, 2) we hit the jackpot and would be able to see all that we wanted despite on our tight schedule.

After a brief discussion of popular choke holds and a quick hostage run for your life drill, we decided to go with it and trust that hauncho's friend would both take us into AND out of the desert. We set the game start time for 7:30 the following morning.