In Oman with Baker - January, 1999

January 9, 1999

My first impressions of Oman were unlike anything I had ever imagined. People that had been here before described it as one of the most progressive Arab countries, not unlike Europe in many ways. I began to see, as we left the airport and headed to our accommodations in town, that it seemed to be a perfect marriage of Eastern and Western ways.

Lush green hedges and manicured lawns flew by as we sped down the six-lane boulevard that is the transportation backbone of the Muscat region. Certainly the quality of vehicles on the road indicated a prosperous people; BMWs and Mercedes were de rigeur while the lesser folk drove Toyotas and Mazdas. All were immaculately clean, as there are strict penalties to be paid for having a dirty car.

An enormous mosque under construction, encompassing over forty acres of land, appeared on our right; its four minarets towered over the main structure which could easily stand five stories high. The backdrop to this magnificent structure and the districts that we passed through were barren, rugged mountains, rising up but a few kilometres from the sea. Small forts, resembling sandcastles dotted their weatherworn peaks at infrequent intervals.

I should also mention that we arrived at the peak of Ramadan, a month long holy celebration for all Muslim people. It was impressed upon us since our arrival that it was forbidden to eat, drink, smoke or chew gum in a public place during the daylight hours as most Muslims refrained from these until after the sun set.

We arrived at our accommodations; a cluster of sandstone condominiums set in a hillside amidst houses resembling miniature palaces. Huge stone walls encircled them and ornate wooden gates allowed, in many cases, the only entrance into their courtyards. Their architecture was a unique blend of Spanish and Arabian styles.

We barely had time to get unpacked and explore our surroundings before the drivers arrived to transport us to Baker’s office. The office was located in a thriving shopping complex, teeming with people. Many were in traditional Omani garb; flowing white robes, sandals, and either Kashmir turbans or else “flower pot shaped” hats called kumas, all highly colourful. The shops were closed now to open again once the heat of the day passed.

Once at Baker we were briefed as to our schedule for the next few days. This encompassed training to allow us to work in the oilfields of the interior. We were given cars to drive during our stay, one for every two persons. I was designated as a driver, which seemed daunting at first, but proved to be enjoyable. We left the office as the sun was setting and headed out to find some much-needed nourishment. Our place of choice the first night was…… Pizza Hut!

Jan 10, 1999

One thing that I noticed as time passed, was the large number of Indians and Pakistanis in the country. For the most part they kept Oman running, working in all aspects from street cleaners and gardeners, to shopkeepers, restaurateurs and office workers. They were a friendly and courteous bunch although conversations with them could be a little confusing as their dialect of English varies greatly from ours. The instructor for the first day’s course was Pakistani. He covered all the basics of safety, H2S and fire fighting at a breakneck pace.

After the course we had a little time to explore. The shopping centre was the first primary target. It was an upscale mall, on par with any found in Europe or North America with shops catering to all needs. The computer software shop was a favourite with the “Ex-Pats” as we learned quickly that copyright laws don’t apply here. Most of the popular IBM programs were available on CDs as copies for as little as 2 Riyals ($7.50 US).

I went down one passageway and emerged into a kind of indoor souk (marketplace where more traditional items were sold). Here you could buy massars (cloths to wind into turbans), dish-dashes (long robes), and innumerable wood and metal trinkets from Asia, Africa and the Middle East. The shopkeepers, who were mainly Pakistani or Hindi, would aggressively invite you in to browse their wares. When a buyer expressed interest in a certain item, the haggling over price would begin, usually resulting in a discount of up to 40% of the original price.

The day ended with a meal at a local Pakistani restaurant. After assuring us that the portions were small, the two of us were presented with enough food for considerably more (at a cost of about $16.00 US). I must admit that Pakistani food is an acquired taste and I’ve yet to acquire it!

Jan 11, 1999

We headed off to the office at sunrise to meet our next objective: a blood test. Hamid met us at the office, in full Omani garb and smelling of frankincense. We followed in our cars as he led us all over the city it seemed until we arrived at a dingy clinic surrounded by hordes of people. It seemed that, in order to get Omani residency which we required, you have to have a blood test. So we dutifully joined the throng. Again we were immersed in a melting pot of cultures, all, like ourselves, seeking residency. Hamid scurried about with a sheaf of documents for the various officials requiring them.

Our next destination for the day for the four of us chosen to drive, was the Desert Driving Course. The delivery of material by a British Ex-Pat made this an enjoyable afternoon. Many topics were discussed with some of them even being about driving. Basic driving rules for Oman were covered along with driving off-road in sand, journey plans for driving in the interior and desert survival. The latter topic enforced the seriousness of being stranded in the desert, and was illustrated with a number of recent incidents where knowing just a few tips meant the difference between life and death. The practical part of the course was covered during a field trip to immense sand dunes on the outskirts of town. It was here that we were given the opportunity to put the instructor’s Izuzu through its paces, manoeuvring up, down and through this undulating beach.

At day’s end, we headed back to the staff houses for a hearty supper of steak and chips, cooked up by Stan, the English mechanic.

Jan 12, 1999

Our course for the morning was to be on SCBA (Self Contained Breathing Apparatus). Although the material covered was the same that I have had before in Canada, this time we not only donned the equipment, but were able to try different situations with the packs on, even simulating running out of air. This gave me much more confidence with the packs. The course ended with an Indian style lunch and we were set free for the day.

Claude, a fellow Canadian from Alberta, and I set out to explore the city. We covered a lot of distance that afternoon, traversing the Muscat region from end to end, snaking through the barren, brown mountain passes that connected the communities together. Coming down from one of these passes we entered a bustling community perched alongside a huge crescent shaped bay. A promenade stretched along the seaward side, with a huge mosque taking command over the sprawl of shops across the boulevard. The midday prayers blared from its minarets.

Farther down the coast, we entered the actual city of Muscat. An enormous sandcastle-like gate traversed the road at its entrance. We parked and climbed the huge stone steps to its top. An impressive stone courtyard intertwined with lush manicured gardens provided an impressive lookout over the city below. We were surprised to find a solitary Omani praying in this courtyard with an ancient assault rifle by his side. My first feeling was one of apprehension, but Claude approached him and struck up a conversation. Although he spoke little English, we were able to communicate with a little of both languages and a lot of sign language. He told us about the array of forts in the surrounding area and what was to be our next destination. We returned to the car to carry on.

The inner city of Muscat had more of a distinct Arab flavour to it. Narrow streets lined with whitewashed buildings snaked out in all directions. It was compacted into an area scarcely four square kilometres, bounded by the mountains on three sides and the sea on the fourth.

We didn’t realize that we were at the palace until we had almost passed the entrance. The high walls that we had been following gave way to an immense wrought iron gate. Inside, surrounded by lush gardens and dazzling fountains was an incredible palace: the home of Sultan Qaboos of Oman. It commanded nearly the entire bay on which it was situated. Professional looking guards were posted at the numerous gates surrounding it. Three anti-aircraft batteries guarded the seaward side. Later it was revealed that, fearing against attacks, the Sultan did not dwell here, but rather used the palace for visiting dignitaries and official functions. With the daylight fading, we headed back to the shopping centre for supper.

We met up with Hamid at eight o’clock the same night for what was to be an utterly fascinating foray into Omani culture: a visit to a traditional Arab souk , or market. He arrived in his funky Arab garb, as always, and led us to Mattrah.

People streamed like bees through a small entrance below street level where just a glimpse of what was offered. We followed the throng inside. Passages snaked off in all directions with barely enough room to walk abreast. We followed the flow of people down one of these and weaved our way through the labyrinth. The smell of incense lingered in the air. The din of the traders reverberated throughout. Many of the shops that we passed seemed straight out of the Arabian Nights fables, displaying wares such as intricate gold jewellery, bolts of brightly coloured cloth, ornate rugs, Omani clothing and fascinating objects of brass (even the renown Arabian genie lamps). The people too were an interesting mixture of traditional and modern. Some women, Shiites from the interior, were totally veiled in black, with not even their eyes exposed. It must have been quite a sight to them also, seeing a couple of obvious Westerners trying on dish-dashes and turbans and haggling for our purchases. We did purchase a number of garments and hats, but mostly browsed or talked with many of the merchants. It was an experience that left me overwhelmed, having never encountered anything as intriguing as this. Reluctantly, we had to depart as tomorrow was to be our last day in Muscat and promised to be a busy one.

Jan 13, 1999

The last formality on our list was to get fingerprinted by the federal police. We set off from the office on foot, all of us strung out behind Hamid’s flowing robes. The fingerprinting itself was anticlimactical. More paperwork, more beaurocracy. We were set free by 10:00 am until our afternoon flight.

Claude and I immediately set out for the souk again. We had to exchange some items that were too small and to pick up some more souvenirs. I bought a carved wooden jewellery box for my daughter, a brass scorpion lock for my son and a brass camel oil lamp for me. Caught up in the excitement of the souk, we lost track of time. The airport was on the other side of the city through the heavy midday traffic. We put our Toyota through its paces, maxxing it out on the boulevard to Seeb and arrived just as the others were going to the gate.

The flight was interesting in itself. The plane, a Fokker F28 turboprop, was full to capacity with all oilfield workers heading into the interior to work. The view from the window was that of jagged brown mountains that seemed as old as time. The mountains suddenly fell away and a great sand plain stretched into the distance. For the next hour and a half the only view would be the endless sand.

Sand. It was the first thing that you saw when you arrived in Fahud. Fine as flour, it surrounded us on all sides. It was swept up by the wind and arranged like snowbanks. A person was hard pressed to find anything green, only a few scraggly brown sages clinging to the parched earth. We left the shelter of the airport buildings, three cinderblock windowless structures, and climbed aboard the bus that would take us to the rig-site.

We rattled over a graded road passing awe inspiring rock formations. The surface of the moon would have much in common with this terrain. Finally we linked up with the blacktop and headed into Fahud.

It certainly had all the markings of being an oiltown in the interior. All lodgings and offices were portable trailers. Oilfield equipment of all description lined both sides of the road. But it was a small patch of green in the sea of brown on which we sailed. The rest of the drive was downright boring. Sand stretched flat into the distance with nothing to break the monotony.

The rig loomed on the horizon. We had arrived in Yibbal, the end of our journey. It would be thirty five more days until we were to fly out again.

Notes About Yibbal, the Camp and the Rig

Our temporary accommodation was by no means four star. Until our new camp was ready, we were staying at the Arabian Industries Al Turki camp. It was mainly a collection of skid mounted trailers with the main buildings being a permanent design. Like little subdivisions, the Al Turki camp was one of several clustered together. Only PDO’s lodgings were noticeably separated and surrounded by a high stone wall. Being the customer had its advantages.

Shifts were assigned and half of us started work immediately. Coming off shift at midnight, I was warned to expect an early morning wakeup from the mosque right next door to my cabin. Sure enough, at 5:30am that morning and every morning, noon and evening, prayers were blared out of the speakers mounted on the mosque’s roof. They were in Arabic, half chanted and half sung. Luckily this only ensued for five minutes each time.

We were the only “westerners” in the camp. The bulk of the workers were Hindi Indians with the remainder being Omani and Pakistani. It was not unusual to see Omanis in their white robes and hats scurrying to the mosque, while the Pakistanis hung out their laundry clad in what looked like long skirts wrapped around their waists. Sandals were the order of the day for all. On windy days, you would find the Hindis and Pakistanis with their heads wrapped in scarves. I remember seeing the fork lift driver driving by looking like a mummy with sunglasses on.

Food was prepared by Hindi chefs and was surprisingly tasty. Both Indian and western fare was served. It was interesting to try many of their dishes, although you did have to keep in mind that curry and chilli peppers were added to almost everything. One morning I got an eye opener while eating an omelette made with a healthy supply of chilis. Chapatti bread was another favourite. It resembled Mexican tortillas in taste and texture. On several occasions they would make stir fried kabobs with peppers and onions. Rolled up in a chapatti with some ketchup and hot sauce, this made an excellent “fajita”. I also tried (and enjoyed) Dahl: fried potatoes in sauce, Bengalgram: lentils in a hot sauce, and a chopped fried cabbage in, yep you guessed it, a hot sauce. There was always plenty of ice cream and fresh fruit for dessert.

We had a couple of visitors that hung around the camp for a few days. Two camels wandered along the road outside the main gates. I was told that, besides being a very smelly animal, they can attack a man and stamp him to death. We always gave them a wide berth.

Over at the rig site, a short walk from the camp, there were two groups, the senior personnel and the roustabouts. Most of the people included in the first group were English or Scottish. Three Canadians, one Irishman, one American and two Hindis rounded out the group. There was always some good natured bantering going on about the different nationalities and accents (apparently, I have an accent). Although the Scottish when they spoke, were not easy to follow, the two contractors from Birmingham were the hardest to understand. Duty free became “due e fry” with these blokes. Him ‘an his mate were a couple of bleedin’ nutters. My own vocabulary had to expand in order to understand and be understood: boiler suits are coveralls, spanners are wrenches, cheers is thank you, kip is sleep, scran is food and whiskey is scotch period!

The roustabouts were a mixture of people from East Africa (Tanzania), India, Pakistan, Iran and Oman. They were a good natured, easy going bunch that worked hard when they had to. They were willing instructors for me, teaching me phrases in Arabic, Hindi, Tamil, Belusi, Farsi and Urdu. I also attempted to learn how to write in Arabic, but except for numbers, it proved to be very difficult.

We finally moved to our new camp on Feb 10th. It was located along the side of the road on the far side of PDOs gas separating plants, along with three other rig camps. It was a series of forty foot trailers, three mounted perpendicularly on a skid. The view from the front of the camp in one direction was the flames from the immense gas flare stacks while in the other direction miles of sand and rock stretched into the distance. The food at the camp was second to none. It was the best of North American and European cuisine.

We were joined most days by a family of camels, who would hang around our camp looking for scraps. I offered an apple to one of the dromedaries, who wasn’t shy about taking it.

A few short days later it was time to go. I bade farewell to many of the people that I had met there. I had a strong feeling that I wouldn’t be returning. But my memories of my time in Oman would last a lifetime..