For about a month now, I've committed myself to taking a beach walk at least once a week. After work on Sundays, I go home, rest for a little bit, then drive to Seeb beach (about ten minutes' drive) to feel the sand on my toes for an hour before Sunday night prayer group. On any given Sunday, I arrive at the beach either just before sunset or as the sun is setting. The weather is cool then, and there is enough light before the tall street lamps that loom over the bricked corniche sidewalk. If I'm lucky, it is low tide, and there is a large area of pooled water that reflects the pinks and purples of final sun like wintry cow ponds in a Vermont meadow.
From 5pm-6pm, the young boys from the neighboring area and the university stake their claims on the sand, creating make-shift pitches every 30 meters. I am entertained by their shouts of encouragement and grunts of defeat. I am startled when the ball rolls towards me, and they yell, "Miss! Please!" I am amazed that they play barefoot.
This evening's beach walk started late. I didn't get to the corniche area near the house that looks like a boat until nearly 5.40pm. The tide was high, leaving only about 2 meters' worth of sand between the incoming waves and the strip of pebbles sectioning off the fishermen shacks and equipment yards. I share with you this evening's sights:
You want me to take your phone?
I have just parked my car along the paved sidewalk and I'm heading to a gap in the beach wall to cut through the fishermen shacks for quick access to the beach. I am checking the L and R on my iPod earbuds when an old Omani man , maybe in his early 60s, in an informal jalabiyah comes out of the nearest shack, walks up the path, and says, "Hello!"
I leave the buds in my ears and say, "Hello," thinking he's just saying hi, and that I can now move past him to get to the sand. No. Instead, he says, "How are you"? with each word given a milisecond monotone delivery.
Me: [I take out the earbuds.] I'm fine. How are you?
Guy: I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Little English.
Me: Shwayah. (little)
Guy: You know Omani?
Me: Shwayah, wa lakin ma jayed. (A little, but not good.)
Guy: Me, little English. You, little Omani. Sorry. [holds his hands near his heart] Sorry. What is name?
Me: Mona.
Guy: Ah! Mona.
Me: And you?
Guy: M------
Me: Tesharafnah. (Nice to meet you).
The next 30 seconds is spent in slight confusion and moments of understanding while he tells me in Arabic that this is his sea/beach. It is unclear where his family is, but he's trying to tell me that they are near. He then tells me that I am صديق (friend). I tell him thank you, and then am confused when he hands me his mobile phone. At first, I think he's trying to offer me his phone, but this is nonsense since he's saying, "number," indicating that I should input my phone number into his mobile phone. I then get paranoid, thinking I misunderstood صديق for صديقة (girlfriend). I wave off the phone and start to move past him, gesturing that I need to start walking. The conversation ends with him re-establishing that this area is his. It is unclear definitively if he's trying to say he wishes to see me around again. Either way, he extends his hand slightly for a handshake. Who am I to deny this old man a handshake, so I shake his hand, tell him goodbye, and press on.
Has there been a boat accident?
I get no further than 10 minutes down the beach when I run into nearly 30 men and boys (hard to tell with the darkening sky) hanging around four Bedouin trucks, fervently trying to pull in the nets submerged along the shoreline. I can make out only one truck with an icebox container on the back. I assume they are catching some fish to put in the 2m x 1m container. Some mill about, watching the men work. Others join in, even though it is clear that they were called from their football game to help at the last minute.
What's that on my foot?
30 minutes in to the walk, and I've reversed my direction. Near the pebbled strip area, there is a fishing boat pulled in for the night. Three young men are sorting the nets in the boat. As I walk past them, I feel this weird sensation on the center of the sole of my foot, as if I've stepped on something squishy. I keep on walking, trying to use the sand to jostle it, but it won't budge. I hook my left foot under my right foot, but am met with a now black left toe. I now walk through the water to get the, what I hope is not human or dog feces, off of the bottom of my foot, but am unsuccessful. Using my resources, I take a small rock from the sand and try to scrape off the substance, but it won't budge. Then, I try using my right hand, only to get the goopy mess on my fingers. I dare to smell my hand and find that the substance is grease from the boat's motor that I had passed. I give up the battle of getting it off and consign myself to winning the war by washing my feet in Lifebouy soap when I get home.
Oh, what a cute...What the--?!
I am in good spirits, despite having grease on the bottom of my foot, when I pass by an Omani family sitting in the now dark on the sand. The 3 and 4 year-old boys are in light brown dishdashas, the lamplight reflecting off the fabric the only way that I can see them. A meter ahead of me, I see a shiny substance the size of two loaves of bread half-submerged in the sand along the water line. I think it a beached giant jellyfish, only to find it to be a very bloated and hairless dead feline.
Oh, Seeb beach! What will your waters and sand show me next week?
From 5pm-6pm, the young boys from the neighboring area and the university stake their claims on the sand, creating make-shift pitches every 30 meters. I am entertained by their shouts of encouragement and grunts of defeat. I am startled when the ball rolls towards me, and they yell, "Miss! Please!" I am amazed that they play barefoot.
This evening's beach walk started late. I didn't get to the corniche area near the house that looks like a boat until nearly 5.40pm. The tide was high, leaving only about 2 meters' worth of sand between the incoming waves and the strip of pebbles sectioning off the fishermen shacks and equipment yards. I share with you this evening's sights:
You want me to take your phone?
I have just parked my car along the paved sidewalk and I'm heading to a gap in the beach wall to cut through the fishermen shacks for quick access to the beach. I am checking the L and R on my iPod earbuds when an old Omani man , maybe in his early 60s, in an informal jalabiyah comes out of the nearest shack, walks up the path, and says, "Hello!"
I leave the buds in my ears and say, "Hello," thinking he's just saying hi, and that I can now move past him to get to the sand. No. Instead, he says, "How are you"? with each word given a milisecond monotone delivery.
Me: [I take out the earbuds.] I'm fine. How are you?
Guy: I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Little English.
Me: Shwayah. (little)
Guy: You know Omani?
Me: Shwayah, wa lakin ma jayed. (A little, but not good.)
Guy: Me, little English. You, little Omani. Sorry. [holds his hands near his heart] Sorry. What is name?
Me: Mona.
Guy: Ah! Mona.
Me: And you?
Guy: M------
Me: Tesharafnah. (Nice to meet you).
The next 30 seconds is spent in slight confusion and moments of understanding while he tells me in Arabic that this is his sea/beach. It is unclear where his family is, but he's trying to tell me that they are near. He then tells me that I am صديق (friend). I tell him thank you, and then am confused when he hands me his mobile phone. At first, I think he's trying to offer me his phone, but this is nonsense since he's saying, "number," indicating that I should input my phone number into his mobile phone. I then get paranoid, thinking I misunderstood صديق for صديقة (girlfriend). I wave off the phone and start to move past him, gesturing that I need to start walking. The conversation ends with him re-establishing that this area is his. It is unclear definitively if he's trying to say he wishes to see me around again. Either way, he extends his hand slightly for a handshake. Who am I to deny this old man a handshake, so I shake his hand, tell him goodbye, and press on.
Has there been a boat accident?
I get no further than 10 minutes down the beach when I run into nearly 30 men and boys (hard to tell with the darkening sky) hanging around four Bedouin trucks, fervently trying to pull in the nets submerged along the shoreline. I can make out only one truck with an icebox container on the back. I assume they are catching some fish to put in the 2m x 1m container. Some mill about, watching the men work. Others join in, even though it is clear that they were called from their football game to help at the last minute.
What's that on my foot?
30 minutes in to the walk, and I've reversed my direction. Near the pebbled strip area, there is a fishing boat pulled in for the night. Three young men are sorting the nets in the boat. As I walk past them, I feel this weird sensation on the center of the sole of my foot, as if I've stepped on something squishy. I keep on walking, trying to use the sand to jostle it, but it won't budge. I hook my left foot under my right foot, but am met with a now black left toe. I now walk through the water to get the, what I hope is not human or dog feces, off of the bottom of my foot, but am unsuccessful. Using my resources, I take a small rock from the sand and try to scrape off the substance, but it won't budge. Then, I try using my right hand, only to get the goopy mess on my fingers. I dare to smell my hand and find that the substance is grease from the boat's motor that I had passed. I give up the battle of getting it off and consign myself to winning the war by washing my feet in Lifebouy soap when I get home.
Oh, what a cute...What the--?!
I am in good spirits, despite having grease on the bottom of my foot, when I pass by an Omani family sitting in the now dark on the sand. The 3 and 4 year-old boys are in light brown dishdashas, the lamplight reflecting off the fabric the only way that I can see them. A meter ahead of me, I see a shiny substance the size of two loaves of bread half-submerged in the sand along the water line. I think it a beached giant jellyfish, only to find it to be a very bloated and hairless dead feline.
Oh, Seeb beach! What will your waters and sand show me next week?
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