How I drank Tequila and ended up in Oman

So, tequila and I have a somewhat complex relationship. I’d like to think of it as mutually beneficial; tequila is that close friend offering soft words of encouragement when I want to do something. When tequila and I spend a little too much time in each other’s company those soft words of encouragement change to a deafening cheer of “YAY CAT! DO IT! DO IT NOW!”

So I was with my friend Jodi at the CD bar, and tequila and I were just getting cozy, when she told me she was being deployed to Dubai. “WE’LL VISIT!” I said, kind of loud because tequila was already yelling in my ear to visit. Unfortunately for my husband our credit card information is loaded onto our Delta app and two shots later I had two tickets to Dubai for he and I. “Yay Cat!” said tequila. “Now go to bed before he gets home from work.”

The next morning my Delta app cheerily announced to my aching head that Chris and I were going to Dubai! #skymileslife. Well, crap. I had been there several times. For those of you who don’t know, Dubai is like if New York had a baby with DisneyWorld and raised it on unlimited money, steroids and espresso. I knew he would not care for the sparkling shopping megacenters, polished commercialized super-cityscapes and over crowded resorts. What was I thinking? (Tequila stayed silent).

Suddenly, out of the blue, something spoke to me. I was raised Southern Baptist, so normally if a voice is speaking to me I assume it is Satan talking to my loins (again). This, however, was different. “Cat, why don’t you Google: Where do people from Dubai go on vacation.” And it turns out they go to Oman. #Oman

Oman. Land of the....Gulf of Oman. Oh, man, why would anyone go to Oman? Google again had the answers:

- Consistently one of the safest countries in the world

- Beaches, mountains and desert adventures, all within an easy drive

- Friendly people with great humor

- Welcoming traditional culture

- Why are you still reading this. Go to Oman already!

When I called Delta to tell them of my bad choices, the Delta lady seemed very sympathetic. I believed she must also be part of the Tequila Sisterhood of Occasional Regrets. She was able to change our tickets to fly into Muscat at the same price.

And that is how a few months later we arrived in Oman. Other than buying alcohol at the duty free shop on arrival (learned our lesson from Morocco), not much of a plan was needed.

Oman is the country of happy campers. Not kidding. They rent full camping supplies everywhere, and you can set up camp any place you want. Any beach, dessert, or mountain, the entire country is your campground. We were set. Except we arrived during Hot Season. When an Omani says “its hot,” its like when I moved to Minnesota and they say “its cold.” It means “More than a few hours outside and your partner is gonna get tired of your bitchin.” So, having no plan we hit up an Airbnb (https://abnb.me/nwOzEcQZBY) and came up with four goals.

Our first destination were a few of the hundreds of Wadis. Roughly translated a Wadi is defined as “an amazing groovy cool crystal pool surrounded by towering desert rock formations, begging for a dip or a dive”.

We hiked around Wadi Bani Khalid where high up on the cliffs there were several young Omani men looking down at the water. We climbed up to join them and Chris asked them, “Is the water deep enough to dive in?”

“Yes, very deep” one of them replied.

“Excellent!” Chris exclaimed. “You guys gonna jump?!”

One young man looked at him seriously and said “No. It is not possible.”

“Oh, is it not allowed?” Chris asked.

“It is allowed,” he said. “But do you see the edge of the cliff there?” He pointed to the rock ledge overhanging the deep wadi pool.

“Yes....?” Chris was looking at the edge, clearly worn smooth by others over maybe a thousand years.

“Yes. It is not possible. Look what it does.” He stood up and walked toward the edge. Chris and I as well as the other young Omani men watched to see what would happen. He stood on the edge, and his legs began to shake in a hugely exaggerated fashion. With a perfectly serious expression he pointed down to his shaking legs and looked up at us. “See what this does to my legs. It is not possible to jump.’

We all roared with laughter at the same time. It was our first taste of the legendary Omani sense of humor. After Chris dove, most of the other men did as well, with the exception of the first young man. We begged and finally he responded when I offered to send a video of him jumping. The power of social media is universal, even in Oman. He said. “You send me a video, no bullshit?” I nodded, trusty iPhone at the ready. “OK! Filming now?” I nodded again. He stood at the edge. “Ok, OK. One...Two...Three!!!” He then promptly sat back down. “Did you get it? All of it!?” He continued to make us laugh but as we got ready to leave he wanted one more chance. All of us were chanting “Jump, JUMP!” like a bloodthirsty crowd, and he finally jumped. A loud smack and he came up sputtering.

“It was no problem,” he said “I am very brave” I looked at his two companions who rolled their eyes. Apparently eye rolling is universal in Oman as well.

Chris stayed to chat but I went back down the trail. Along the way there was a group of men sitting on a Persian rug in a circle by the trail. As I approached they waved me over to sit. Immediately I had a cup of tea and dates, and the stories began. Being from Texas I have a hard time understanding even a Minnesota accent, so I’m not sure if they were talking to me about gritty knives or pretty wives, but we did a lot of gesturing and laughing. Chris arrived and they welcomed him as well, and we finished the day with smiles and friendships.

The following day we headed to Snake Canyon. The roads in Oman are well marked, well paved and easy to follow, with a couple of exceptions, driving in the desert, and the road to Snake Canyon. I’m not sure what the road is actually named, but my husband thinks it was Adrenaline Panic Hyperventilation Road. It’s a series of switchbacks and steep grades that looked like a Hot Wheels track set up by a boy hopped up on Sudafed, Red Bull and Mountain Dew. I thought he was being a bit of a baby, but to be honest I’m not entirely sure as I had my eyes tightly closed the entire time.

This Canyon requires a guide (https://www.tripadvisor.com/Attraction_Review-d3749866?m=55595) because it is a one way trip, requiring equipment and lots of hands to help. Our guides Rashid and Zaher were very patient. “I am so sorry, Mrs Cat” Zaher would say as they shoved or held whatever part of me that was reachable as I scrambled down cliffs. “No, you guys are fine! Better than TSA screeners!” I replied as I sat on his shoulder as he tried to steady me. The gorge was awesome, before awesome was used to describe everything from selfies to avocado toast.

After the morning tour/scramble/near death experience we ate a mom-cooked meal back at a small village where Zaher lived. I could see Chris watching me intently, making sure I did not use my left “potty” hand. We met his young children who shyly came in and shook our hands, then promptly squealed with giggles when they got a bag of American candy treats I had brought (best idea ever). Goal number 2 accomplished.

The next goal, getting to Khasab, was tricky. Oman has a section of land separated from the rest of the country, with United Arab Emirates in between. It is only accessible by ferry, it has a ruggedly beautiful coast, and I arranged for an overnight on one of the Omani boats (dhows) with Mohammad http://dhowkhasabtours.com/ . My husband thinks he is the romantic one, but sleeping on Persian rugs on an open boat under the stars in the middle of nowhere sounded like I just one-upped him. (The old saying - We laugh about how competitive we are, but I laugh more). Our two crew member dhow team took us out accompanied by dolphins riding the bow waves. We swam with thousands of fish that we later caught for our evening meal, cooked by our hosts on board. After dark we immersed ourselves in the sparkling bioluminescent waters, our bodies glowing with each stroke or kick and laid down on pillows in complete isolation in the inland waterway. Our crew slept in the back, separating us by a curtain for privacy, but the “romantic” aspect was slightly impaired by the fact that Chris was already asleep, twitching like a sleeping dog chasing an ever-so-slightly faster rabbit.

The final objective was the goat market in Nizwa. Now throughout Oman there are goats. Lots of goats. Here a goat, there a goat, everywhere a goat goat, I asked our dhow crew “How do you know whose goat is whose?” He looked at me, puzzled. “I know my goats. If I do not know it, it is not mine.”

Getting to the market early on a Friday was essential, as it was quite a spectacle. Thousands of goats being paraded by their owners around a wide circle filled with spectators. If they see a goat they like, they throw a small stone at the owner, much like I do when Chris is not getting my drink refill in a timely fashion. It was the first time we saw the women actively participating in public, and they were obviously good negotiators. And good rock throwers. They could teach me a lesson or two. “Hey,” said Chris, “you could wear one of their outfits and gain a few pounds and no one would notice!” My husband, there are times he is so funny. Then there is now.

On our final day, we were sitting in a hole-in-the-wall delicious restaurant near the market, and a friendly couple sat down next to us. On vacation. (From Dubai!!). We chatted about the weather (hot) and lack of alcohol (sad). I offered our last two bottles of duty-free wine since we were leaving, which they accepted immediately with a rush of gratitude. “Wish you had some tequila” the gentleman said. I tried to come up with a witty reply, but just grinned at him until it got kind of awkward.

I kept my tequila regrets and tequila successes to myself.