Two memorable days, part 1

Friday was great. The Omani that we went bowling with the night before, Khalid, invited us to a traditional lunch at his place on their holy day (Friday). He lived out in what looked like the Doncaster of Muscat - big new estates with no landmarks or shops, but they have roads that are straight (unlike most of the country). The house had a somewhat Italianate style to it, oh, all buildings in Muscat are either white or cream or similar, by decree of the Sultan. Big dark wooden front doors... I actually don't remember the details too well, but there were definitely pillars out the front. And steps that lead down and fanned out from the front door to the front yard, which had no soil or grass. Anyway, interestingly enough, we weren't invited to see around the house - we entered by a front door that lead straight into a lounge room for entertaining, and I noticed that others were entering and leaving the house by the other front door that lead into another area also adjoined to the lounge that we were in. Anyway, in this lounge, white walls, curtains & rugs in mostly creams with brown details, big lounge-suite in, oh, kind of orangey-camel colour? With fringing, like on cowboy shirts. Yeah. So there's picture frames kind of built into the walls, no colour just a raised and ornate pattern in the shape of a frame. In one of these faux frames is hung an old fashioned hunting rifle. So we talk about hunting and the politics thereof for a bit, what you can/can't hunt (Khalid's English was good but not great), apparently you can't hunt anything in Oman anymore. Then he left the room to check on lunch, and of course I couldn't help making the smart arse remark to Sophie that I'm sure hunting Kurds was still ok. We started snorting with nervous laughter at the inappropriateness and only just managed to control ourselves before he came back into the room. We met his mother, but it was only brief, as she didn't speak English.
OH, before I go any further.... first there was the question of the suitability of a rose. Sophie decided to bring a present, and so she bought some chocolates (how suburban) and a _single red rose_, for Khalid's mother. I couldn't help thinking that the single red rose, with or without chocolates, was going to convey an ambiguous message, regardless of culture. Don't ask me where Sophie gets these ideas from. So yeah, we skipped the rose.
Lunch was served by his mother, and there was a large dish of rice, mixed with small pieces of chicken and the odd vegetable - but primarily rice (reminiscent of fried rice). And the rice was one of three types of rice that they serve, it was slightly off-white in colour, the other two types being saffron and plain white. Then there was fried fish that was eaten in pita bread with a stick of lettuce and lime juice. A plate of grated carrot and some green vegetable salad, paranthesised with chillies and limes; homemade pita bread; yellow dates, from their own farm; a fruit platter with bananas, cherries, Omani mango, Pakistani mango and oranges; that's all I can remember from the initial course. It was all laid out on a mat on the floor, which we sat around. After we'd eaten for a while, his little sister brought in two courses of desert and coffee: the first was like a rice pudding with cardamom, except that the consistency was more like jelly - there were no distinct rice granules. The second course was an ice-cream and biscuit cake that I wish I'd had more room to stuff myself with. Both were delicious, combining subtle flavours and delicate consistencies. All the food was great, and like the desert, usually subtle in flavour. Only the natural flavours of the fruit were strong. Omani coffee, unfortunately, is disappointingly like tea. It's weak and thin, even though it's apparently made in the same way as Turkish coffee (which I love for living up to the quote of being black as hell, strong as death and as sweet as love). The coffee was served, however, using traditional crockery (not quackery)... which was nice.

In the early evening we visited one of Sophie's teaching colleagues, Gina, and her husband Peter for an altogether different experience. They live in what might be called the British quarter of Muscat, just near the British Council. They are British, after all. The area seemed more verdant, from memory... the Omanis aren't particularly interested in gardens. Anyway, Peter had spent a couple of years in Muscat before the current Sultan's coup, back when Omanis were still bedouin and there practically was no electricity, around 1970. He was a soldier at the time and only hinted at stories of slave ships from ... damn it, I've forgotten where exactly... but Oman's main industry was still slavery and gun-running up until the coup, but it's very hush-hush and very few Omanis want to talk about it. He specifically recalls a ship with a dozen or so black eunuchs on their way for the Sultan. Crazy times, for sure! As I said, now it's all bloody paved roads, Mercedes Benz and Starbucks. In Muscat, anyway... the Interior seemed more interesting and 'authentic', but our escort at the time wasn't very patient. That was Thursday. But yeah, Gina and Peter were really nice, and their house actually had a large garden, which is a change from the usual rocks, stones and concrete that I see. Learnt a lot about Omani politics, too much to relate here, and we had a charged discussion about drugs and addiction, me pushing my usual naive idealist perspective.
Anyway, that's enough for now. By the way, you can post comments to these if you like, just have a look for the button somewhere. If I'm really being far too verbose, just let me know, as I'm a bit conscious of it at the moment, not having a personal written diary to complement this public blog. Yeah, whatever.