By Rachael M -The boy noticed small clouds of dust whirled up by the car even before he could hear it approach. Tarmac had not yet reached Al Khataim in Jabal Shams and there had been no rain to tame the orange dust for some time.
The car engine ticked hot and bothered as the car came to a halt, having worked hard to make it the last few hundred metres on the uneven track. The boy quickly gathered up his small rocks and fossils with one hand and pulled his little brother with the other, to make sure he was the first of the village boys to reach the car. There had been a few tourists, but none of them had bought much of what he had to offer. Times had changed.
He remembered back to the years when his grandfather had been alive, and the old man would spend his day sitting on a rug under the wooden shelter away from the sun. The boy smiled to himself. He had been a sly old fox, had granddad, waving the tourists over to join him on the rug and as soon as they were settled and comfortable, he would pull out his stash of homemade key rings and with his rheumy fingers place them in the hands of the tourists. They always bought a couple of them, emotional blackmail can be powerful, but with granddad gone, so was business. Many tourists waved the children and their homemade weavings away as if they were irritating flies, not realising that these made up vital extra income in a place where opportunities were few.
A lady got out of the car and hoisted her camera bag over her shoulder. She sent the boys a suspicious look and double-checked that her car was securely locked.
“Is it safe to leave the car here?”, she looked around doubtfully. The boy’s uncle and the bigger boys had spent a lot of time clearing a small space where the tourists could park, out of the way. The fact that they often left their 4x4s on the only path leading to the houses has only become a problem now that the village had got its first car. Before it hadn’t mattered too much if they blocked the way, his father would skillfully guide his herd of sheep and goats around the cars, although some tourists had complained that the goats would leave dirty smears on their vehicles from time to time.
“No problem”, the boy assured the lady “no problem.”
The lady looked around unsure of where to go. Although the Ministry had marked the trekking route with official colours, painted directly on the rocks, few knew that the beginning of the trek started at the very heart of the village. Three ancient rocky steps led down to the path.
The boy looked out over the canyon and smiled to himself as he noted the shadows of clouds playing on the mountain side. The clouds would not bring rain, but at least they would make the lady’s walk a little easier. They didn’t deal with the heat so well, the foreigners. Although the boy had lived in this tiny village clinging on to the edge of the mountain his entire life, he never got tired of the breathtaking view and was always proud to share it with the tourists. The clean air, they deserved to smell it, to taste it and take deep breaths to clear their city lungs. He had been to Muscat once and had been overwhelmed by the amount of cars, people, noise and activity around him. He would die if he had to live his life there, he knew that much. How did people there ever find an empty space to just sit and think?
The village wasn’t much to look at if seen through a stranger’s eyes, the boy knew that. Furthest away was the old stone house made from local stones, which help it blend into the environment. It had never had air-conditioners of course, but it had never seemed necessary. The stones kept the rooms cool in summer and sheltered the family from the worst cold in the winters. His father was proud of the house and announced to anyone who cared to listen, that what had been good enough for his grandfather was good enough for him. A later edition was the free-standing majlis, where the family sat together and where they invited visitors for Omani coffee and dates and shared the latest news from the villages nearby.
His mother often invited the tourists in for coffee, when they walked through what was in effect her yard to get to and from the trail, but they always declined and hurried to their cars. It hurt her, but she just sighed and forgave them their bad manners, hoping it was their different customs and not a slight on her hospitality.
The lady frowned slightly as she made her way through the minefield of empty tins, plastic bottles and bones from past meals. Her expensive trekking boots looked too shiny and unused next to the boy’s bare feet.
“Come,” he called and pointed towards the three steps leading down to the trail. She shouldn’t be walking on her own, the boy thought to himself. Why was her husband or her brother not with her, he wondered. Maybe he better walk with her, just in case. He jumped down the steps and waited for the lady to follow him.
“I am not paying you for this, if this is what you are planning,” she raised her voice and wagged a finger at him.
The Rim Walk as the trek was called followed the edge of the canyon some 2,000 metres below and the boy knew it like the back of his hand. It was a century-old goat trail and the views were nothing but spectacular. He bounced along, carefully kicking bigger stones out of the way so the lady wouldn’t scuff her boots or stumble over them. A nasty acacia spread its branches over the path and the boy stopped to bend a few twigs aside while the lady ducked under them. As she straightened up she smiled at him for the first time.
“Thank you,” she said with gentle surprise.
It was a good two hours walk before they reached the abandoned settlement of Sap Bani Khamis. There wasn’t much left of the old houses neatly built under a rocky ledge, an overhang forming a concave indent about 50 metres deep. The village would have been well protected from the elements, securely tucked away. Nowadays the boys would let their goats rest there in the shade of the ruins, while they themselves clambered up to the rock pool to cool of in the heat.
The lady handed him a bottle of mineral water and sat down to undo the laces. She let out a sigh of relief as she kicked off her walking boots and wriggled her toes. The boy could see large blisters glowing and angry red on her heels. His own feet, he noticed, were brown and dusty, soles as hard as leather. He had always wanted a pair of those boots. Now he was not so sure.
The lady looked out over the canyon and tried to take in the enormity of the place. This had been ocean bottom million of years ago. Exposed layers formed by the oldest of prehistoric oceans. Sea creatures preserved forever as fossils and found scattered around the mountain, for the boys to collect and sell.
And yet, she knew she was looking at the highest point in Oman. It blew her mind.
They walked back in silence, fascinated by the surrounding stillness of nature. A lizard skittered across the path to safety between the rocks and a lone vulture circled lazily overhead, but these were only movements without a sound.
I watched the as the boy held out his hand to help the lady up the last three stone steps. He was carrying her camera bag and she was limping badly. Back at the car saying their goodbyes, the boy handed her something with a proud smile. It was a fossil, a seashell warm after hours in the palm of his hand.
The lady reached for her purse and found a five rial note, which she offered to him.
“No!”, he said shaking his head, “this is for you. A gift.”
As the boy ran off to join the other children and the lady drove away, I smiled and was once again reminded that life is a lot more than walking on the edge. That it is often walking a fine line, treading carefully and putting your best foot forward without stepping on any toes — and that many of us maybe still have a long way to go. Walking boots or no walking boots.
The car engine ticked hot and bothered as the car came to a halt, having worked hard to make it the last few hundred metres on the uneven track. The boy quickly gathered up his small rocks and fossils with one hand and pulled his little brother with the other, to make sure he was the first of the village boys to reach the car. There had been a few tourists, but none of them had bought much of what he had to offer. Times had changed.
He remembered back to the years when his grandfather had been alive, and the old man would spend his day sitting on a rug under the wooden shelter away from the sun. The boy smiled to himself. He had been a sly old fox, had granddad, waving the tourists over to join him on the rug and as soon as they were settled and comfortable, he would pull out his stash of homemade key rings and with his rheumy fingers place them in the hands of the tourists. They always bought a couple of them, emotional blackmail can be powerful, but with granddad gone, so was business. Many tourists waved the children and their homemade weavings away as if they were irritating flies, not realising that these made up vital extra income in a place where opportunities were few.
A lady got out of the car and hoisted her camera bag over her shoulder. She sent the boys a suspicious look and double-checked that her car was securely locked.
“Is it safe to leave the car here?”, she looked around doubtfully. The boy’s uncle and the bigger boys had spent a lot of time clearing a small space where the tourists could park, out of the way. The fact that they often left their 4x4s on the only path leading to the houses has only become a problem now that the village had got its first car. Before it hadn’t mattered too much if they blocked the way, his father would skillfully guide his herd of sheep and goats around the cars, although some tourists had complained that the goats would leave dirty smears on their vehicles from time to time.
“No problem”, the boy assured the lady “no problem.”
The lady looked around unsure of where to go. Although the Ministry had marked the trekking route with official colours, painted directly on the rocks, few knew that the beginning of the trek started at the very heart of the village. Three ancient rocky steps led down to the path.
The boy looked out over the canyon and smiled to himself as he noted the shadows of clouds playing on the mountain side. The clouds would not bring rain, but at least they would make the lady’s walk a little easier. They didn’t deal with the heat so well, the foreigners. Although the boy had lived in this tiny village clinging on to the edge of the mountain his entire life, he never got tired of the breathtaking view and was always proud to share it with the tourists. The clean air, they deserved to smell it, to taste it and take deep breaths to clear their city lungs. He had been to Muscat once and had been overwhelmed by the amount of cars, people, noise and activity around him. He would die if he had to live his life there, he knew that much. How did people there ever find an empty space to just sit and think?
The village wasn’t much to look at if seen through a stranger’s eyes, the boy knew that. Furthest away was the old stone house made from local stones, which help it blend into the environment. It had never had air-conditioners of course, but it had never seemed necessary. The stones kept the rooms cool in summer and sheltered the family from the worst cold in the winters. His father was proud of the house and announced to anyone who cared to listen, that what had been good enough for his grandfather was good enough for him. A later edition was the free-standing majlis, where the family sat together and where they invited visitors for Omani coffee and dates and shared the latest news from the villages nearby.
His mother often invited the tourists in for coffee, when they walked through what was in effect her yard to get to and from the trail, but they always declined and hurried to their cars. It hurt her, but she just sighed and forgave them their bad manners, hoping it was their different customs and not a slight on her hospitality.
The lady frowned slightly as she made her way through the minefield of empty tins, plastic bottles and bones from past meals. Her expensive trekking boots looked too shiny and unused next to the boy’s bare feet.
“Come,” he called and pointed towards the three steps leading down to the trail. She shouldn’t be walking on her own, the boy thought to himself. Why was her husband or her brother not with her, he wondered. Maybe he better walk with her, just in case. He jumped down the steps and waited for the lady to follow him.
“I am not paying you for this, if this is what you are planning,” she raised her voice and wagged a finger at him.
The Rim Walk as the trek was called followed the edge of the canyon some 2,000 metres below and the boy knew it like the back of his hand. It was a century-old goat trail and the views were nothing but spectacular. He bounced along, carefully kicking bigger stones out of the way so the lady wouldn’t scuff her boots or stumble over them. A nasty acacia spread its branches over the path and the boy stopped to bend a few twigs aside while the lady ducked under them. As she straightened up she smiled at him for the first time.
“Thank you,” she said with gentle surprise.
It was a good two hours walk before they reached the abandoned settlement of Sap Bani Khamis. There wasn’t much left of the old houses neatly built under a rocky ledge, an overhang forming a concave indent about 50 metres deep. The village would have been well protected from the elements, securely tucked away. Nowadays the boys would let their goats rest there in the shade of the ruins, while they themselves clambered up to the rock pool to cool of in the heat.
The lady handed him a bottle of mineral water and sat down to undo the laces. She let out a sigh of relief as she kicked off her walking boots and wriggled her toes. The boy could see large blisters glowing and angry red on her heels. His own feet, he noticed, were brown and dusty, soles as hard as leather. He had always wanted a pair of those boots. Now he was not so sure.
The lady looked out over the canyon and tried to take in the enormity of the place. This had been ocean bottom million of years ago. Exposed layers formed by the oldest of prehistoric oceans. Sea creatures preserved forever as fossils and found scattered around the mountain, for the boys to collect and sell.
And yet, she knew she was looking at the highest point in Oman. It blew her mind.
They walked back in silence, fascinated by the surrounding stillness of nature. A lizard skittered across the path to safety between the rocks and a lone vulture circled lazily overhead, but these were only movements without a sound.
I watched the as the boy held out his hand to help the lady up the last three stone steps. He was carrying her camera bag and she was limping badly. Back at the car saying their goodbyes, the boy handed her something with a proud smile. It was a fossil, a seashell warm after hours in the palm of his hand.
The lady reached for her purse and found a five rial note, which she offered to him.
“No!”, he said shaking his head, “this is for you. A gift.”
As the boy ran off to join the other children and the lady drove away, I smiled and was once again reminded that life is a lot more than walking on the edge. That it is often walking a fine line, treading carefully and putting your best foot forward without stepping on any toes — and that many of us maybe still have a long way to go. Walking boots or no walking boots.
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