For ages, the hijab, a head covering worn by Muslim women, has been a symbol of the East, a symbol of modesty and mystery. The practice of veiling has deep seated religious roots, originating when the wives of the Prophet Muhammad veiled themselves from worshipers who came to visit their home (which was converted into the first mosque). However, the hijab is an avenue for political expression as much as a religious garment.

Many think (and have thought) of the Middle East and the West as two opposing spheres of thought and cultural heritage. Despite the gross over-simplicity of this idea, the belief has been and is being used in conjunction with the practice of veiling to support political movements and rally people around nationalistic ideologies in the Middle East.  Kemal Atatürk, in his campaign to westernize Turkey in the late 1920s dissuaded Turkish women from wearing the Hijab.  For the garment was seen as a cultural artifact, alienating to the West. Today, with an awareness of the cultural connotations of the hijab, some women use the garment as a socio-political tool and veil in tacit rejection of the West, be it of the American occupation of Iraq and Afghanistan or of past damage to Syria, Lebanon, Jordan and then Palestine during the period of colonization and systems of mandate.

It is certain, though, that many women today still wear the hijab for reasons of perceived chastity and modesty. It seems that veiling can at once empower women and strip them of identity or agency. But there is no doubt that it is an injustice when women are forced to veil or not to veil for social reasons.

One way the veil can empower women is by allowing them to move freely within public spheres and escape sexual harassment on the street, a growing problem in the Middle East. It is thought that women wearing the hijab are harassed less because they are “good Muslim women,” mothers and wives who project an air of modesty. So we can consider the veil as a tool that allows women to be treated with respect in public spheres, rather than as sexual objects open to verbal or physical harassment.

But the question I have is: what came first, the chicken or the egg? Do women veil to escape harassment, or did the trend of veiling prompt widespread harassment of unveiled women?

A strange concept, certainly counter-intuitive, but bear with me. The veil, in religious terms, serves the purpose of covering a woman’s body in order to quell the devious thoughts of men. Perhaps extreme, but there have been campaigns which push women to veil that promote just such an idea. The caption of this add reads: “A veil to protect or the eyes will molest.”

This poster characterizes women’s bodies as sweet and tempting, and men’s eyes on them as spoiling. It seems that the consensus here is that a woman’s body is inherently sexual, something to be desired. The act of veiling springs from this belief, and attempts to counter the issue by obfuscating the temptation of the body.

However, it seems to me that wearing the hijab reinforces, intensifies, and to some extent creates the belief that women’s bodies are sexual objects, cementing this belief as a culturally accepted conviction. This phenomenon fits in with the sociological theorem “If men define situations as real, they are real in their consequences.” In this mode of thinking, if veiling is accepted as the norm for women’s dress, a woman who chooses not to veil is automatically deemed immodest, and, however unfairly, can be seen as fair game for harassment. In this vein of thought, the hijab desexualizes individual women, but sexualizes the concept of “woman,” possibly creating issues for women who do not veil.

Others would argue that veiling at times has an effect opposite to that of quelling temptation directed toward the covered woman. Veiling can give women a more subtle power as sexual agents. As Scott and Woody can attest, there is a certain allure and eroticism associated with the garment. Furthermore, when someone sees a veiled woman,  one’s imagination can create the woman as attractive, unbounded by how she may actually appear behind the façade of cloth.

No matter how veiling is perceived — by foreign men as alluring, by foreign women as confounding, or by its wearers as preserving or political, the veil will not be lifted any time soon. As religious conservatism gains momentum in places, more and more women are choosing to cover. With global tides carrying people and Islam across borders and seas, it is becoming all the more necessary to understand the implications of this sartorial phenomenon.

When Scott asked if I could write a post on Islamic Finance for the blog, I nodded with enthusiasm. To be honest I am a relative newcomer to this topic and a non-Muslim, and though while supremely curious I feel I run the risk of offending others on a subject that can be sensitive. Nevertheless, here we are.

The first thing that caught my attention about Islamic finance is its recent origins. Although religious scripts governing Sharia law have been around since Prophet Mohamed’s time, Islamic finance only emerged after the Second World War. It didn’t emerge as a result of new, groundbreaking economic principles, but as a response to a series of clashes between western and Muslim nations, which led to a rise in pan-Islamism.

Among the consequences of this movement was a change in the ways of commerce among Muslims. As Gulf nations withdrew petrodollars they held in the West and began dumping them in their own backyard, cities like Dubai and Kuwait emerged as hubs for the practice and display of Muslim financial piety. By the 1970s, Islamic scholars, economists, and intellectuals were busy studying and interpreting passages of the Quran for the creation of a framework for Islamic finance.

Theological Underpinnings

There are several factors that appear to make modern day Islamic finance different from conventional finance, the most important of which is the prohibition of interest. Wikipedia amply lists all these traits.

Al-Baqarah 2:275 Those who consume interest cannot stand [on the Day of Resurrection] except as one stands who is being beaten by Satan into insanity. That is because they say, “Trade is [just] like interest.” But Allah has permitted trade and has forbidden interest. So whoever has received an admonition from his Lord and desists may have what is past, and his affair rests with Allah . But whoever returns to [dealing in interest or usury] – those are the companions of the Fire; they will abide eternally therein.

But this prohibition isn’t unique to Islam. The Old Testament also regards the charging of interest as immoral. Exodus and Deuteronomy specifically regard lending to the poor as a sin.

Biblical Parallels

Exodus 22:25 - You shall not give him your silver at interest, nor your food for gain.

Deuteronomy 23:19 - Thou shalt not lend upon usury to thy brother; usury of money, usury of victuals, usury of any thing that is lent upon usury

Leviticus 25:37 - Thou shalt not give him thy money upon usury, nor lend him thy victuals for increase

It was only during the European Renaissance when Protestant reformer John Calvin changed the status quo. He argued that not all rules in the Old Testament set out for Jews (who were permitted to lend to gentiles) were applicable to Christians and that one must not interpret these passages in a literal manner. The bible should simply serve as a guide. But Calvin’s real concern was the exploitation of the poor through high interest rates. In Calvin’s letter to Oekolampadius, he writes that he is unwilling to condemn usury so long as it is practiced with equity and charity. Whoever borrows should make at least as much, if not more, than the amount borrowed, meaning that as long as one is fair and reasonable, charging interest should be allowed.

Calvin’s words were such a blow to the Church that interest became legalized across Europe. This was a major turning point in history. It is interesting that Calvin’s view, which forms a basis for modern day capitalism and bank lending, was effectively reversed by Islamic scholars in the 1970s. Is this to say that Muslims, who did business like others in corporate America up until the 1970s, were all of a sudden subject to the new rules of Islamic finance? Yes, in a sense. But there is a twist to it all.

According to Sharia scholars, a guaranteed rate of return on an interest rate is prohibited because the lender and borrower typically bear an unequal level of risk. For example, Sharia scholars prohibit the issuer of a bond to default on an interest payment and then go bankrupt, because those at the bottom of the pecking order virtually have no claim to their monies. Therefore much of Islamic finance is about creating a mechanism that reaps the benefits of bank lending with the appearance of profit sharing (Mudharabah).

Financing Structures

Consider a car loan. If I were to take out a loan in the UK, the bank lends me money and I repay the loan at a predetermined interest rate. Should I become unfit to service the loan, the bank revindicates (repossesses) the car, collects what is owed, and refunds the remainder (if any). If I were to go to an Islamic bank, the bank buys the car, and then sells it to me at a premium, also to be repaid at predetermined intervals (Murabahah). Although I end up paying the same amount under both scenarios, Islamic scholars believe that the latter scenario is only fair because should I default, the bank simply revindicates the car with no further claim on me. In the earlier scenario, the bank may further pursue me for any remaining principal if the repossession doesn’t provide enough. Thus Islamic banks do charge for the time value of money.

Another popular Islamic investment product is a sale/lease bond, aka Sukuk. Suppose I am a property developer and wish to build an apartment complex. I would sell a piece of real estate to a special purpose vehicle (SPV), which raises the funds by selling share certificates. The SPV leases the asset back to the issuer (me), thereby collecting principal plus interest and passes the proceeds back to the sukuk holders in the form of rent. At the end of the lease, the SPV sells or gives the property back to the issuer.

Other types of Islamic financial transactions exist. But to me the above examples are enough to suggest that Islamic finance is nothing more than smoke and mirrors. Islamic finance uses complicated structures to achieve the same goal as conventional finance, but with added cost and decreased transparency. At the end of the day, profit and interest by any other name is still profit and interest. It is hard to imagine that this was the Prophet Mohamed’s objective.

Interest in Indonesia

Having grown up in the world’s most populous Muslim nation, I want to share my observations on Islamic finance in this part of the world. In my opinion Indonesia sees Islamic finance like a dot in the horizon. I can assure you that the majority of business done in Indonesia is definitely not Sharia compliant. Even more fundamentally, more than half the population, which lives in poverty, has probably never even heard of Islamic finance.

The problem with Islamic finance is that it has no global standardization. It emerged in the 1970s in the Middle East, which explains its varying level of demand in different Muslim countries. And as Islamic finance continues to emerge in different parts of the world, it faces the danger of generating greater differences and inconsistencies. A recent Bloomberg article calling for certification among Muslim scholars is further testament to this problem.

Don’t the Saudis own shares in Citi? Are wealthy Indonesian Muslims putting their money into Singapore or their own Sharia banks?  As the market continues to develop, time will tell how market priorities interplay with religious doctrine.

It was a sad moment, that next morning when we realized we would need to leave the comfortable womb of the Intercontinental Hotel in Muscat.

As a decent conciliation, we would be climbing back into the Previa and racing across the desert back to Dubai, where we could look forward to another couple days in the pleasant company of our dear friend Sid.

As I walked out of the hotel with my filthy yellow technology bag, my ukulele, and my weathered Panama hat, I wondered what they must think of us. How often does a guest as strange as AsiaWheeling’s team Prevlaunch show up at this kind of place?

We sat down in the giant expanse of the lobby and considered ordering coffee, but further scrutiny of the price and the recollection that we were still very long on Red Bull, brought us back to our senses.

I sat in the lobby, sipping a Red Bull and watching the other guests, most of whom were very well dressed western and Omani businessmen.  I opened my computer and did a little work, while Scott and Claudia took a last tour of the grounds. Meanwhile, Jackson, in his infinite kindness, was handling the luggage (or at least directing the operations of the hotel’s luggage handlers).

With the Previa loaded, we said our goodbyes to this palace, and headed into the city of Muscat, with the goal of finding food. Unfortunately, not far into our stroll, we started to realize that most of the businesses were, for one reason or another closed (perhaps a mid-day napping break?).

So with an eye on the watch, knowing that we needed to make it back to Dubai that night, we hit the road, relying on the Red Bull and raw willpower to push through the hunger until the next restaurant opportunity.

We had some fruit left from our in-room picnic, so we munched on that as we drove. One of the stranger purchases that Claudia and I had made the day before was a type of citrus fruit called the curry lemon. We wanted to cut up the fruit, but the vibration of the road was increasing the risk of Claudia cutting off her fingers. So we pulled over.

They looked and smelled like grapefruits at the time of purchase, but upon dissection, the name proved to be more apt than we’d hoped. They were, in fact inedible, perhaps they were good for making juice, but they could not be comfortably eaten straight. And we had these fruits, opened and reeking… what to do? In the end, jettisoning them in the desert seemed the best move.

It was good to be driving through that beautiful landscape again listening to John Zorn’s Dreamers. We stopped for gas not far outside good old Sohar and purchased some startlingly cheap shawarma pockets to go with our startlingly cheap tank of gas. We attempted to recreate the glory of our original Ras Al Khaima avocado drinks, but were sorely disappointed to find that the similarly named items at the roadside shawarma stand were just green McDonald’s style milkshakes. Too sweet for me.

Despite the milkshakes, our love for Sohar welled up inside of us. Being so close to that fine place once again, we could not help ourselves. We climbed back into the Previa and designed this “Sohar So Good” T-Shirt.

We crossed back into the UAE, this time at a new boarder. As always, the experience was streamlined and friendly.  Our fellow travelers were well dressed Germans, who appeared to be living the lifestyle depicted in Louis Vuitton luggage advertisements.

We were happy to allow them to cut in front of us, just to get the chance to study them further.

Not far into the UAE, we found ourselves suddenly in a region of giant sand dunes. The sun was just setting, and it was simply too beautiful not to stop, so once again we called a waypoint.

We took off our shoes and ran into the dunes, feeling the hot sand underneath our feet.

We spent the next hour or so playing in the sand, shooting photos of one another, and generally reveling in the desert landscape.

We took the opportunity to give some love to our underwear sponsor, Exofficio.

When the sun had sunk too low to photograph any more, we headed back over the barbed wire fence that we’d hopped to get off the highway and into the dunes, and piled back into the Previa.

By the time we got back to Dubai, the in-town EuropeCar had closed, so our best choice was to head to the airport. Sid was so kind as to offer to drive us back from the airport, even in the face of all the sand that we inadvertently dragged into his apartment.  What a chap.

We woke up in an idling Toyota Previa in a ritzy neighborhood somewhere in the suburbs of Muscat, Oman. During our meandering search for a good spot to set up the hotel the night before, we had passed a Starbucks Coffee, positioned rather oddly in the middle of a causeway. We decided that rather than bash our heads against a wall and battle the morning traffic, visiting this place might be the solution to our morning needs.

It was, as all Starbucks are, unremarkable. The coffee was pretty darn good, and the pastries were expensive and overly sweet. However, they did have Internet, which we were able more or less to operate.

This was good, as it had been some time since we’d connected. So with stomachs full of American(o) style coffee and cold manufactured pastry, and our Internet lives in a slightly less in a state of shambles, we headed back out to the Previa, which was now positively cooking in the bright sun.

Now, unbeknown to you, dear reader, this whole time the illustrious Jackson had been cooking up quite a plan for us. We had, as you know, been sleeping in our van for the past few days and, as Jackson deemed it, we were overdue for a bit of Luxury. It seems we would be going straight up to the top on this one. Yes, I’m talking about none other the Al Bustan Intercontinental Hotel of Muscat.

Jackson had, through his many mysterious and illustrious connections, manifested for us a triple upgrade at this five-star hotel. This meant we could purchase their cheapest room, and would be automatically upgraded to their third- cheapest room, I felt quite sure would be overwhelmingly ballin’. In addition to the upgrade, we could check in early and check out late, plus some other perhaps yet-to-be disclosed perks. This was going to be magnificent. Jackson had been playing the Intercontinental and the Grand Hyatt off each other for the past couple days, working his magic and finding us the best room he could. Eventually we had selected the Intercon.

There was only one catch. It was a two-person room. It would be huge, of course, with plenty of space for all involved. But we decided we might be better off if, at least during the check-in process, the staff believed that it was only Jackson (a prominent Indonesian businessman), and his wife/weekend fling (Claudia) who were checking in the today.

So as we drove through Muscat, toward the opposite side of town, where the Intercontinental Hotel chain had bought up quite a giant swath of land, we hatched a plan. As we pulled under a large archway and into the grounds of the hotel, we entered a very un-Oman-like, and strikingly foliated world. It was all well watered and covered in grass, flower beds, and palm trees.  We drove by tennis courts and topiary gardens. Gardeners and grounds keepers were everywhere, struggling to maintain this unnatural greenery against the harsh climate. This was the place, for sure. We were in.

Well before the hotel itself was in view, we pulled over the car, and Jackson took the driver’s seat. Claudia took shotgun. We synchronized our watches, and exchanged wishes for good luck in the upcoming endeavors. Scott and I set out from there on foot, waving the rest of our team on toward the main facility.

It was blisteringly hot, and as Scott and I walked along the side of the road, we became soaked in sweat. Soon we came upon a large parking lot, across from which we caught our first glimpses of the massive hotel in which we’d be sleeping that night. It was a huge octagonal prism, a rather fetching mixture of an almost Soviet brutalism and traditional Islamic architecture.

We paused in the parking lot to chat for a moment with a fellow who was there washing cars. It’s always good to cultivate allies, here on AsiaWheeling.  It seemed that car washing was one of complimentary services of the hotel. The fellow spoke very little English, but was quite happy to see guests out strolling and sweating profusely. We idled in the shade with him for a while, exchanging non-verbal regards. Then it was time for him to work again, and for us to continue to move, always vigilant against detection.

Up ahead of us, across from the main entrance to the Intercontinental, was the beginning of a stretch of jagged rocky cliffs. These seemed the perfect place to hide out and wait for Jackson call. So we headed up into the lifeless rocky hills, to survey the terrain and bide our time.

In order to get there, though, we needed to use a kind of gardener’s drainage and wheelbarrow access trench. Three hundred meters down the trench, we found a rusted ladder that allowed us to scale a length of poured concrete wall and get up onto the base of the first rocky cliffs. Up we went, scrambling over the crumbling and jagged stone that made up most of the terrain around Muscat. From the top of the crag, we had an unencumbered view of the grounds. They were quite impressive: a large swath of beach, countless pools, hundreds of deck chairs with umbrellas, a few outdoor bars and restaurants, plenty of stark white uniformed employees, and from what we could see very few guests.

It was then that Scott got the call. He crouched down against the rocks and spoke in a ragged whisper. When he hung up, he looked at me through the boiling heat.  My pupils were so closed against the bright sun that his face was all but invisible, shaded by the brim of his Panama hat.  As he turned his head up to me, the sun spilled over his chin and mustache, exposing a toothy grin. “We’re going in.”

I gave a solemn nod and scrambled down the rock face. Soaked in sweat, we emerged like fugitives from the bushes that hid the drainage and wheelbarrow access trench from passers by and strolled across the parking lot up to the front gate of the Intercontinental. Jackson was there to meet us, leaning against a giant pillar just inside of the air-conditioning, looking at his watch. I gave him a tip of the Panama hat; he gave a slight bow.

We heartily shook hands, introducing ourselves, and exchanging AsiaWheeling business cards. “How was the flight?” Jackson asked. “Rotten,” we replied.

“Well, shall we get down to business?” he said, turning on the ball of his foot to lead us toward the elevators. We nodded, and with hands clasped behind our backs, we strolled behind him and up to the room.

Claudia had already made herself at home, and was deep into investigating the facilities. All our baggage had been brought up by the hotel staff, and had been placed in the massive luggage storage cubby near the entrance to the room. There were complimentary fruits and sugared dates to refresh ourselves after a day of traveling.

The room boasted a gigantic tiled bathroom with gold fixtures (including bidet), a kind of antechamber for the bathroom, where one might spend time getting pretty, an immense collection of complimentary potions, and a balcony with chairs, table, and a view of the pools, cliffs, and a bit of beach.

There was a mirrored cabinet full of crystal goblets, fancy teacups, saucers, silverware and the like for in-room picnicking. There was even an Ethernet cable sticking out of the wall, promising Internet.

It was this particular feature that Claudia was investigating at the moment we arrived. The hotel’s server seemed to be asking for a password and or some money. For one of the nicest hotels in the world, this seemed a bit of a nickel and dime. “No worries.” Jackson replied, “I’ll solve this.” And with that the illustrious Jackson picked up the room phone and began using a combination of tough love and Indonesian black magic to manifest a free Internet password for us.

And with that, we leaned back and began eating free fruit and generally relaxing. As we were munching and enjoying our new found surroundings we began to realize something: we would be here in this hotel room for the next 25-32 hours, and we certainly could not afford to eat at any of the restaurants nearby. This meant one thing: in-room picnic time. And for this we would need supplies.

Claudia and I grabbed the keys to the Toyota and headed off in search of supplies, while Scott and Jackson continued to relax and explore the hotel.

We arrived back in very high spirits, in part from our triumphant purchases at a giant Omani grocery outfit and positive interactions with the employees there, and in part from having just flown down the highways of Oman, windows down, grocery bags fluttering in the wind, and singing along to some old Presidents of the United States of America tracks. We loaded all the food into a Dahon folding bicycle bag and strolled into the lobby. The people at the front desk must have been quite curious as to why a woman, presumably Jackson’s wife, staying at such a fancy hotel would appear, sweating like a pig, out of the glaring heat, along with her husband’s business partner, toting a giant oblong black bag filled with what looked like loaves of bread, fruit, and thousands of jars of Arabic pastes, but could have also very well been a dead body. We flashed big grins at the staff and grunted our way across the palatial hotel lobby, eventually heaving the bag of groceries into the wrong bank of elevators.

It’s true. We were crazy. Just crazy enough to work.

When we finally opened the door to our room and threw down our load, Scott and Jackson were discussing an issue of some medical importance. It seems Jackson’s sunburn had taken a turn in the bizarre rash-like direction, and after some team consultation, the two of them decided to head out once again in the Previa, to seek some medical attention. But before that, it was time to have a little in-room picnic feast. Once we were all full, Claudia and I wished our dear friends good luck in their mission, and while they headed out into the city, we headed out to the beach.

The next three hours were spent swimming, wandering amongst tide pools, and using the free kayak rental service.

Part way through our kayak trip, a smiling and chiseled employee of the hotel was dispatched in a speedboat to kindly inform us that it was time to return the kayak. So we did.

As we headed back toward the hotel, we encountered Scott and Jackson, who had arrived back not long ago. Reunited once more, and relieved to hear that Jackson’s skin condition would be easily treatable, we all headed back to the room for a celebratory badam milk drink.

The rest of the evening was spent using the facilities of the Intercontinental Muscat to the greatest extent we could. And it felt great.

We swam in all the pools, used the towel service, sat and watched the sunset from the deck chairs, sang songs, and played ukulele into the night.

A luxurious experience indeed.

We awoke in the middle of the desert, in a flat rocky wash, inside a humming white Toyota Previa, air-conditioning gently whispering, sun shining brightly in the window, just peeking through the loosely woven threads of the Cambodian krama wrapped around my face. We were in the vicinity of what appeared to be a gigantic abandoned residential development project outside of Nizwa, the ancient capital of Oman. I unwrapped the krama and squinted in the morning’s bright desert sun.

We pulled ourselves out of the car and stretched in the warm morning air. I kneeled down to unlock the bikes and Claudia began to brush her teeth. Just another morning at the Hotel Previa. It had been a peaceful night, and we were feeling well rested and excited to explore Nizwa.

Nizwa is one of the oldest cities in Oman. It was the capital of the country roughly between 500 and 700 AD and was rumored to be an interesting mixture of new and old. We were quite excited to wheel the place. The city is also a religious center, with many historic mosques. We were visiting on a Friday, which meant much of the city would likely be closed down to observe the holy day. This meant traffic would be light, which was good. We just hoped someone would be serving a lunch-type meal.

Cycles loaded into the Previa, we crunched over the gravel and climbed back onto the road. I pulled my seat belt around me with one hand, cracking a Red Bull with the other.  There were no cars or signs of life for miles around us. We traced the last night’s steps back to the main highway into Nizwa. Jackson had, despite application of sunscreen, been sunburned the previous day, and so as we pulled into Nizwa center we offered him some of our newly received UV protective arm sleeves, compliments of our good friends at Speed Matrix and My Bike Shop in Singapore. Needless to say, Jackson was ecstatic to be so well protected against the harsh desert blaze.

On we drove, into the ancient city. We could see signs that it had at one time been quite imposingly fortified, though now large chunks of the city wall had been cut to allow cars to enter and exit. We parked in a large lot on the periphery of the city center, not far from a round-about with a very interesting sculpture dedicated to books, and climbed out.

We used the bathroom at a nearby shop, Jackson brushed his teeth, and Scott and I began unfolding the cycles. Food would be the next goal, but first we needed to do a little bit of reconnaissance. Most of the city seemed closed for business, but Claudia headed over and began interrogating a large confident man in a white flowing robe about where a few folding cyclists might get a little grub.

The man seemed very friendly and gave us directions to an eatery not far off. On our way there, though, we could not help noticing the startling concentration of jewelry shops in this town. To bolster our fake marriage, Claudia and I had begun wearing wedding rings, knowing that the Hotel Previa would not be around forever. Unfortunately, Claudia’s ring had been giving her a massive allergic reaction, so we were in the market for a new cheap ring.

It only took a few shops to eventually find the type of Omani jewelry merchants we were looking for (those that dealt in fake precious metals), but even they were not offering quite the right fake wedding ring, so as the hunger began to groan ever louder in our stomachs, we headed out empty-handed in search of the aforementioned restaurant.

It proved somewhat difficult to locate, so we decided to ask once again. The next man we asked was extremely helpful, offering to lead us there. So we followed behind his stern march and flowing garment, right to the door of the place. We headed toward the back, where we took a seat on a large and intricate carpet. We ordered a few dishes and soon they arrived on a stainless steel platter that our waiter set down in the center of the carpet.

The food was medium by Omani standards, which are pretty high. I believe the place was more of a tourist restaurant, which explains why it was open on the holy day. Regardless, we felt quite good leaving the joint and quite excited to wheel the ancient capital.

So we hopped on the cycles, heading first across a large central canal, which I assume sometimes flows with water. It was dry as a bone then. From there we headed into an older and more residential part of the city. From time to time, we saw people, but for the most part, the city felt like a ghost town with all the inhabitants either at the mosque or inside their homes, hiding from the midday heat.

Between the protection of our Panama hats, the UV arm bands, and the increased aeration we got from wheeling, we were quite able to handle the heat.

And so we headed on, ducking at times onto crumbling gravel roads, and then back onto the main streets.

We met some folks driving in a Nissan pickup, with a few children in the back. The kids were absolutely thrilled to see AsiaWheeling, first simply dropping their jaws, then clapping their hands at us. The man who was driving them around was also quite interested, giving us a big grin as we rode by.

We made our way around the city, approaching the center from the other side, eventually making our way back through the main (somewhat deserted) souk (Arabic for market), and across that same bone dry wash that bisected the town. We were by this point quite thirsty and interested in water. Finding an open shop that was serving water was not easy, but after perhaps 15 minutes of wheeling around, find one we did.

It felt great to pour the life-giving elixir down my throat. I had no idea how dehydrated I had become, and once we had finished our bottles, we quickly purchased another four liter-and-a-half-sized bottles and headed back to the Previa. She had managed to heat up to quite an interior temperature in the midday sun, so the first bit of driving was kind of like piloting a self-cleaning oven, but soon the air-conditioning, coupled with open windows got the better of her, and we pulled back onto the road for Muscat.

As we drove, we began to see signs for a nearby cave and decided that it might make a good intermediate waypoint on our journey to Muscat. So we pulled off onto a gravelly side road, but soon the signs for the cave disappeared. So we stopped the car and began to take stock of where we were. There was a large cliff ahead of us, on which what looked like an ancient crumbling and abandoned walled city stood.

The cliff itself was gouged with long deep pits that might have, to a creative Omani tourism official, constituted caves. To the side of the cliff was another small oasis, instantly apparent by the green shrubs and trees that stuck out so starkly against the dry beige of the desert.

We decided first to go explore the so-called caves. The sandy area at the base of the cliff showed plenty of evidence of humans spending time here. Bones from meat, containers, and curiously enough, a fair number of liquor bottles littered the ground. Most disturbing were the bodies of a number of dead dogs, which also seemed to have found their way to this bizarre location.

We climbed around on the rocks, eventually finding a small sheltered body of water, which may or may not have had its origins in the Omani sewage system.

We decided to head back to the cycles and wheel up onto the plateau above the cliff where the abandoned city was.  Before exploring the city, we took a quick wheel around it, skirting its perimeter and attempting to ascertain whether it was a no-trespassing zone. No evidence to that effect presented itself. On our ride, we encountered few humans, though we rode through a number of new housing projects. We did at one point have to break up a small soccer game taking place in the road, but except for those kids, we were the only ones on the road.

We looped back around and parked the cycles, hoisting ourselves over a crumbling dry mud and stone wall and into the abandoned city.  The city itself was amazing. It had not been occupied for some time, and was certainly in a state of ruin, but there was enough evidence that one could still easily imagine it in its prime.

We spent some time, wandering the area, climbing on walls, entering and leaving the buildings, and, with no small bit of trepidation, exploring some of the more solid looking second and third story rooms.

Inside the structures, one could just barely make out the colorful tiles that had been used to decorate the interior of these houses. Though they were now just crumbling mud and stones, these buildings had once no doubt been quite impressive. Lavish even.

As we climbed back over the wall, we were met by a man in an expensive SUV. He pulled up, giant engine purring, and down hummed his electric window. He introduced himself, and asked us where we were from. He explained to us that this abandoned city had been occupied not 50 years ago, and only now with the new influx of oil-related money into Oman had all the occupants finally moved out and the city fallen into this kind of permanent disrepair. Fascinating.

We explained to him a little bit about our trip, and the countries we’d visited to far. We were starting to rack up quite a list by this point, and it seemed we had crossed the line: the number of cities we’d visited had begun to outnumber the names of those we’d yet to see. The gentleman seemed very supportive, wishing us safe travels before driving off into the sun.

We headed back toward Muscat, enjoying the craggy landscape and the large mostly empty, and immaculately clean and smooth highways, and the album “The Bee’s Made Honey in the Lion’s Skull” by Earth, which I dare say is very good for this landscape.

And then we were suddenly in Muscat. Traffic was not bad, and we followed signs toward the city center. Parking also was not too tough, and we found a free spot in a back alley behind a restaurant.

We unfolded the cycles right there and then and headed out in search of food. The sun was just beginning to set, and the temperature was falling to that of a comfortable evening stroll. The people of the city seemed to have been of the same mind, for as we rode, the streets began to fill with pedestrians.

We wheeled on for some time, before finding a Lebanese restaurant which, for one reason or another, seemed inviting. We headed up, and the owner, who spoke quite passable English, was more than happy to offer our cycles a spot inside the restaurant to save them from further rapscallioning.

The city of Muscat was gorgeous. Truly gorgeous.  And it looked no worse as the sun set and the lights of the city began to turn on. The architecture was like that of no other place I’d ever been. If Dubai is the epitome of reverence for the new, Muscat might be that of reverence for the old. Even obviously brand new buildings were erected in the style of the ancient ones here. Also obvious in the design of the city was the respect for Oman’s maritime tradition.

The sea and the port played a central role in the layout, and it seemed always just around the corner wherever you were.

The food was glorious: crisp salads, babaganouj, hummus, falafel, and leban, all accompanied by plenty of olive oil and stacks of piping hot flatbread.

With eating out of the way, we decided to go for a walk through a nearby market. There was certainly plenty of stuff for sale here, from antique maritime equipment, to jewelry, to hookahs, to cloth, to spices. In one of the shops, Claudia spotted the perfect faux wedding ring and we pounced on it.

We spent quite some time chatting with a spice trader there, who had been trained by his father in the blending and trading of all manner of spices, ouds, and fragrances.

He would put out a large glass jar full of colorful shapes and ask us to have a smell. “Now there are some 23 odd spices in here… can you name them?” And we would get the first five right off the bat, then struggle furiously with the next seven, then give up. He was quite a chap, and quite a salesman. For anyone visiting Muscat, a visit to his shop is highly recommended.

Back on the streets, we continued to wheel for a while until exhaustion overtook us and we pulled an uber- lichtenstein back toward the car.

We parked that night in the back lot of a very expensive housing development in Oman, wandering around behind a set of no doubt fantastically expensive shrubs to urinate and brush our teeth, then locking the bikes to a streetlight, and parking the Previa right beside them.  After a round of trivia, it was time for a good rest.

We awoke on the beach in Al Sawadi that morning, once again to find that what had been rather deserted in the night had become somewhat of a gathering place now that the sun was up. We turned off the engine, noting that running the thing all night long had required less than an 8^th of a tank (nice one Toyota), and climbed out of the car.

It was an interesting place in which we found ourselves. The beach we were on was flanked by a number of small structures selling snacks and drinks, a line of palm trees, and then the long beach on which we’d parked.

We looked out into the shimmering blue-green water and could see a number of interesting looking islands hovering perhaps a kilometer or a little less offshore.

The sun was shining and we had nowhere to be just then, so we began toying with the idea of snorkeling out to those islands. While discussing the notion, we cracked a few Red Bulls and opened up a couple of Core Defender bars, most generously donated by our AsiaWheeling nutritionist, Corey Rennell. Soon enough, with blood sugar on the rise, we decided it would be a good idea. So we left the bicycles locked to the palm tree where we had left them overnight,  grabbed our new snorkels, locked up the Previa, and headed into the water.

At first, the going was very tough. The snorkels and masks were by far the worst I had ever used in my life. However, a quick sprint back to the car provided a temporary work around. Jackson had brought with him a small tin of petroleum jelly. We used this to lubricate the seals of the masks and any leaky parts of the snorkels themselves. Then, with the tin  in my back pocket, for easy re-sealing in the field, we set out.

The view underwater was very strange. There seemed to be a thermocline just a couple feet below the surface, and as we swam the barrier between the two temperatures caused a sometimes nauseating and sometimes psychedelic pattern as it distorted the sea floor. Apart from the strange thermocline the view was quite good, and the concentration of lifeforms on the sea floor increased as we swam on toward the island.

When we finally reached the place, we found it to be quite hospitable. It was a low-lying rocky place, pockmarked with small caves, most of which showed signs of being recently occupied human nests. The water around the island was mostly coral reef, and offered a great opportunity to see the odd school of bright red fish, and a number of interestingly shaped bottom feeders. It was no Borneo, of course, but it was a delightful swim. Even given the generally leaky nature of the masks, I felt like I had gotten my six dollars worth on this one island.

After exploring the water, Claudia and I climbed one last time onto the rocky surface of the island. From there, we could see the tiny white form of the Previa, looking as pretty as ever, and even a cluster of dark shapes at the base of an adjacent palm tree. This was, of course, our beloved Speed TRs. They seemed to have, in typical fashion, attracted a small crowd of children we imagined right now to be ringing the bells and generally enjoying the majesty of the folding cycles.

We climbed back into the water, after re-lubing the masks, and began to swim toward the mainland. It seemed that since we had headed out here, somewhat of a current had manifested itself, so the swim was a bit longer and more diagonally oriented than that we had anticipated. One of the results of this was that we were all quite hungry by the time we arrived back at the Previa, having swam a few miles now on nothing more than half a raw food bar and a few cans of Red Bull each.

All hunger was, however, forgotten when we headed over to inspect the cycles. It seemed that the aforementioned crowd of children had in fact been pilfering crooks. All our lights and bells had been stripped, and all three of our locks showed signs of attempted cutting.

The  knaves! The rascals!

Those stinking urchins had taken not just the removable bells, but our beloved dynamo hub-powered front light stoo. I immediately began to pace and swear.

Claudia, being of cooler mind, headed out in search of the rapscallions. She began asking some of the families that were lounging and picnicking on the beach about the group of kids and where they had gone. She returned back with little info other than a dose of sage wisdom from an Omani grandmother. Claudia had been hesitant to call the cops to help us search for the kids, but an old woman had assured her:  little boys who steal turn into older boys who steal turn into men that steal. Fair enough, lady. But we had no time to be filing reports with the police of Oman as tall and confident as they may be. We had to keep wheeling.

So finally circling around in disbelief and despair, we climbed back into the Previa and pulled onto the road, weeping into our Red Bulls.

We hadn’t really eaten much that day, and feeling empty in more than a few ways, we wandered into a random Omani roadside café, which turned out to be a Turkish joint.  Before the food came, we sat devastated, pondering our loss. We were scattered and inarticulate, so the owners of the place just decided to order for us, trusting that we could afford it, and soon out came a truly savage feast.

It was exactly what we needed, and it turned out they were right on all counts.

We climbed back into the Previa and drove into the desert. The sun began to set, and the glorious orange and gold sunset reflected off the rocks and sand, doing its best to cheer us up.

As if to rub it in, our next waypoint was to be a night wheel. We pulled into the desert oasis town of Al Hamra. We parked the Previa in an open gravelly lot, and began to unfold the cycles as the last of the sun was slipping from the sky.  The city was greener than any we’d seen in all of the Gulf, with tree-lined streets, and little streams of diverted water running alongside each thoroughfare. We climbed onto the cycles and decided to wheel deeper.

As was the norm in Oman, the roads were smooth as silk, and traffic was slow and friendly. We wheeling further in, through the glow of street lights, which were spaced far enough apart that for a moment we would be riding blind, until our eyes adjusted to the darkness. Soon we made our way into the central part of town, where we called a waypoint to purchase water at the local general store.

From there we followed the sound of trickling water toward the central oasis. Soon we found ourselves at a large poorly lit bit of river. We hoisted our Dahons up onto a gravelly section of flat ground above the walkway on which we were wheeling, and headed in on foot. Not far down the oasis-side walkway, we discovered a group of old Omani men bathing in the night, and decided to give them privacy, turning around and heading back to a relatively unpopulated part of the oasis, to sit for a moment and listen to the water. With our oasis fix… fixed, we climbed back on the cycles, to wheel back to the Previa. We rode by the large central mosque, which was very dramatically lit from the ground. Onward from there, we stumbled upon a giant crowd of people, which was rather startling in what had seemed an otherwise largely deserted town.  The folks were all men, and had gathered around a small television set, watching cricket.

We wheeled slowly through, giving our best regards to a few who came up to greet us. As we wheeled through the crowd, we attracted quite a few strange looks, and even some hostile shouts, but none felt physically threatening, and soon we were once again on the silent back roads of this place, with only the sound of trickling water to accompany us.

We headed back to the main road and took it until the turn-off for the ancient Omani capital of Nizwa. It was rather late by the time we arrived, and it being an inland city, we headed for the outskirts, scanning the roadside for a place to set up Hotel Previa. Soon enough we were able to make it to the site of an under-construction suburban desert housing project that appeared to be deserted enough for our purposes. So we pulled over and unloaded the cycles, locking them to the rim of the car, and climbing into the Previa for another quick round of PodQuiz, then sweet slumber.

The sun was shining brightly, indicating that we had slept significantly into the morning. It was good, though, it had been very late indeed when we had arrived at that lonely public beach in Sohar. The beach was now much less lonely; in fact, it seemed we had collected a small audience outside the idling Previa, scrutinizing the cycles and peering through the condensation-soaked windows at us sleeping.

So we rolled out of our seats, greeted our audience, thanked them for their attention, and with a Billy Shears type introduction, presented them with Jackson, who performed an epic rendition of Speed TR  unfolding, followed by a rousing bit of wheeling.

With the car locked tight and fading into the distance behind us, we struck out in search of the secrets of Sohar. It was a sweaty place, though the moist seaside breeze was not so much hot as it was oppressively sticky. It also became apparent that we were not only far from the city center, but also quite a way from the nearest source of breakfast. So we headed back to the Previa, performed reverse rendition of the bike-folding act, and to the great chagrin of our fellow beach goers, disappeared into the hazy day, headed for the city center.

Scott had an insatiable urge that morning for Internet, and we drove for quite some time, Scott with his laptop open, searching for wireless networks. We found quite a few, but they were without fail either red herrings with no data behind them, or secured against us. Finally, after spending a fair bit of time attempting to sweet talk a local business into letting us onto their network, we finally gave up and chose a new tack: shopping malls.

So we asked for directions to the largest local shopping mall and parked our car outside. Inside, we were initially unable to find a source of wireless Internet, but Scott was intrepid. On the upside there was another sprawling super market. This seemed the perfect place to buy the breakfast foods we so very much needed to maintain sanity. So Scott and Jackson headed off in one direction, and Claudia and I in another, one team determined to find some way to access the Internet, the other to procure foodstuffs. We met up and feasted at a table outside one of the many coffee shops. Scott had great success in his search for Internet, finally syncing his email in the back office of a children’s fun center on the fourth floor.

So with stomachs full and sync’ed of emails completed, we unfolded the cycles and headed out to the road. Sohar turned out to be great for wheeling. Very nice, smooth roads, low traffic levels, and starkly uniform Islamic architecture. From time to time, as we continued to explore, the wheeling became mildly technical. You see, the city was bisected by a number of large highways, on which, while traffic density was still quite low, the speed and recklessness increased greatly, requiring some gnarly portaging in order to get from one street to another.

As we headed farther from the city center, we began to feel a change from the stark white buildings and giant sparkling mosques to a more rural vibe. The roads began to crumble into gravel and packed earth, and soon animals were roaming around us. Our goal was to get to the ocean; as far as our compasses and understanding of the local terrain were concerned, it couldn’t be much farther. We had even begin to smell that salty fishy musk, but the road refused to take us consistently in the right direction, instead meandering this way and that, and all the time growing ever worse. We stopped to take stock. and I climbed onto a nearby wall to scout things out. Up ahead, we could see the road connected with another in a T-style junction. And the other road, it seemed, might take us right out of the salt marsh agricultural zone through which we rose, and directly to the beach.

And sure enough it did. That same sweltering humidity that had made the car sweat so profusely overnight washed over us as we came upon the coast, which was dotted with overturned fishing boats. We took a left onto the first paved road we encountered, and headed down it along the beach. Soon we were joined by a group of young local wheelers, who were absolutely thrilled to see us in the neighborhood.

They were, unfortunately also quite reckless with their cycles, and possessed a nasty penchant for littering and challenging each other to races. We rode along with them for a while, but were quite glad to be free of them once they finally lost interest.

We also found this interesting piece of Omani graffiti, which we would love one of you Oman-savvy readers to unpack in the comments.

A few kilometers up the road, moving away from the water, we called a waypoint at a local grocery shop to buy water and Japanese sports drinks, to be mixed into a healing kind of dilute tonic.

Claudia pulled over and used her Arabic to ask a couple of Omani teenagers who were walking and smoking cigarettes by the side of the road how to get back to the Safeer Mall, where we had parked the Previa.  They gave us very good directions, and feeling just peachy, we pulled off the road onto a 500 meter section of packed dirt that  would let us get over to the mall parking lot.

As we rode, a couple of women called out to us, giving their support in Arabic. Oman… what a place.

We pulled back onto the road and drove on, cracking Red Bulls and listening to more trivia podcasts. We drove for hours through the desert, and eventually the sun began to set into the rugged tree-less terrain. It was then that we realized it was time to eat again. Perhaps something about all the Red Bull was suppressing our appetites, for we had now a few times during our drive accidentally gone way too long without sustenance.

We pulled off at the next exit, which turned out to bring us to a fascinating town by the name of Al Suwaiq. We pulled into the brightly lit city center, which was really nothing more than a maze of very narrow streets and single story concrete buildings. At least 60% of the businesses here were ladies’ tailoring shops, a ratio that was so unbelievably high, that to this day we wonder how so much ladies’ tailoring business became centralized in this region.

It was, I dare say, not a majority Omani city. In fact we were to learn that most of the people here were immigrants or temporary laborers from Bangladesh.

Claudia needed to take a leak, and being rightfully somewhat wary of heading out into this city on her own, I decided to accompany her in the search. Just as we were asking at our second restroom-less ladies tailoring shop, a man in a giant flowing white robe came over and asked us in Arabic what we needed. Claudia began to explain to him who we were and what we wanted in his city. He asked us to follow him, and we did, past a giant pile of demolished buildings, down a set of stairs, and into a pitch black cul-de-sac. I was a bit worried, but Claudia seemed confident in this guy’s good intentions, so I trusted her. Our new friend fumbled noisily with a large lock and opened a door, spilling out a pool of dim yellow light.

Inside his house, he showed Claudia to the bathroom and as she got down to business, began to change out of his robes and into a lungi and the kind of white undershirt one might uncouthly call a “wife-beater.” Claudia exited the john, and while I took my turn, she began asking the chap for restaurant recommendations.

And so it was that we discovered that his house was, in fact, also a restaurant, specializing in Bangladeshi cuisine. This seemed like an interesting opportunity, and we hurried back out to find Scott and Jackson.

When I got outside, I found that there was some confusion going on with the car. It seemed that two fellows were trying to extract some kind of parking fee from our friends, who remained quite skeptical as to the official capacity of the gent attempting to monetize the section of crumbling asphalt on which we’d docked the Previa. Luckily a passer by explained to us, in no language any of us spoke, that we had better ignore the chaps, and so we did, heading back into the house/restaurant for a little food, but not before assuring ourselves repeatedly that the van was securely locked.

Inside, the Bangladeshi house/restaurant , our host was already hard at work rustling up a number of dishes. It seems that he kept them all ready to go, covered by bits of greasy cloth and requiring only the addition of a bit of flame from his very impressive and heavily modified propane stove. He ran the stove much like the way people pilot rental jet skis: aggressively, loudly, and with a large amount of jerking the apparatus around.

Soon plates of rice appeared before us, and then dishes of meat and freshly cut vegetables, as he prepared them, one by one.  There was certainly plenty of meat in this meal, and a number of delectable complex spices, the likes of which we had not tasted since… perhaps Sri Lanka?

Also, it seems, the fellow had called a number of his friends over to witness the group of foreigners who had chosen to visit his restaurant/home. And so it was that as we began to eat, a small audience formed around us, asking questions from time to time, and generally transmitting good energy.

Once we had finished the food (it was a splendid and rather large meal), we decided to all pose together for a few timed exposures.

So excited were our new friends when viewing the images we had taken, that we decided to head down the block and have a copy printed and framed for them to hang on the wall.

On our way to the photo printing shop, we were joined by a very uncomfortable character in a flowing white robe and head scarf. I believe he was looking for a ride and had noticed that we had a large van, but his language was as circuitous and difficult to interpret as his mannerisms. Even with Claudia’s Arabic skills, we were never quite sure  what he wanted. We had no room in the car for him, and while we tried to communicate to him that we did not believe we could help, he continued on speaking in strange incantations and waving a fist full of Oman reil in front of us.  Eventually, after a fair bit of uncomfortable conversation, he left.

Jackson turned to us once the man was outside. “That man is practicing black magic. I am sure of it.” Fair enough, Jackson.

We chose a nice gaudy frame for the freshly printed image and headed back to the house/restaurant. And here it is.

We decided it might even be worth taking one more group picture with the picture, if for nothing other than reflexivity’s sake.

We climbed back into the car and began to search for a way back to the main road. This proved easier said than done, and we spent at least 40 minutes wandering the dark and confusing back roads of Al Suwaiq. We were finally able to find the main road though, and once on it we made very short work of the remaining few hundred kilometers to Al Sawadi, a kind of seaside resort town. We were becoming way too fond of the hotel Previa, so upon entering the place, we already had little interest in staying at any of the expensive hotels, but we decided that it might be worth visiting them anyway.

So we parked the car outside the Al Sawadi beach resort and headed inside. It was the first time we had seen a bar in quite some time, and for a moment we considered having a drink. But after seeing the prices, we decided that perhaps just smoking a little Shisha in one of the tents in the back might be more affordable.

So we whiled away the next couple hours smoking hookah and chatting about life, the universe, and everything.

Once we had our fill of sweetly scented tobacco smoke, we paid our bill, which was just slightly more than the cost of one drink at the bar, and headed back to the Previa. That night we set up the hotel on a seemingly remote section of beach, not far from the resort, and relaxed into that air-conditioned, humming womb of dreams that is the Hotel Previa.

We awoke the next morning as the bright Omani sun began to heat up the interior of the car. It had been a hot night on that gravely beach, especially since we had decided to leave the windows closed for fear of being eaten by insects.

Despite the heat and some moderate sweating, I slept quite well, and as we stretched and took stock of our surroundings, we were already working on improvements to the Hotel Previa algorithm.

We began the day by taking a quick dip in the sea and drinking a few Red Bulls. The water was the same crystal clear blue that we had remembered, and as we swam, wearing the Dawn Patrols, I could look down and see the bottom, tens of feet below my kicking legs. Much refreshed by the dip, we loaded the bikes back into the Previa and set out in search of breakfast. We spotted a roadside Yemeni café, near a gas station and decided to check it out. It smelled good inside, so we sat down, ordering coffee, hummus, salads, and a large plate of fish.

The food was splendid, and the owners of the shop were quite entertained when, after paying the bill, we proceeded to unload four bicycles from our beloved Previa.

It was time to wheel this city, but for one reason or another, Jackson felt that parking a couple kilometers up, in the town proper, would be superior to parking here at the station. Fair enough, we thought. So Scott, Claudia, and I hopped on our Dahons and Jackson took the wheel of the Prev to meet us in town.

Having spent plenty of time in Indonesia, Hong Kong, and the UK, Jackson naturally pulled onto the left side of the road, where he proceeded to, as an unlicensed driver, take the rental car around a blind cliff-side turn directly into oncoming traffic. We screamed at him, but the windows were up.

We decided that either we were all in a world of trouble, or Jackson would figure it out and we would meet in town. Traffic was light here…maybe he would even make it all the way to town without seeing another car?

Regardless, there was only one choice at this point: wheeling.

And with that, we headed out onto the road. We met up with Jackson in central Khasab; he had come through the experience unscathed, and the four of us headed out to explore the city. The landscape was savagely gorgeous, with almost no plants, just rock, sand, and sea.

The buildings were mostly small, many of them crumbing, some of them lavishly expensive, and other than tea and hookah joints, all the businesses seemed to be import/export companies.

The city, of course, had many, many mosques, with a rather impressive central one in the middle of a great round-about.

We spotted a diving and sporting goods shop as we rode, and decided to buy snorkels. This shop also seemed to be focused more on import/export than retail, but they were happy to sell to us. The water had been so clear and beautiful that morning and the evening before, that we were sure that the underwater view would be to-die-for.  But once we saw how expensive masks and snorkels were at this shop, we decided to wheel on in search of a more affordable option. Sure enough, a few shops later we found it.

For about $6.00 a person, we were able to buy four complete mask and snorkel sets. Sure they were of terrible quality, but we needed them only for the next week or so. So we bought the suckers and strapped them onto the backs of our cycles.

From there we headed back to the beach for another dip. Unfortunately, due to some bizarre change in the currents, the water had become quite cloudy. So, throwing the snorkels into the back of the Previa next to the cycles, we headed out in search of more Oman. There would be more underwater opportunities in the future.

Unfortunately, in order to get more Oman, we actually had to drive back to the UAE. You see, dear reader, Musandam is disconnected from the rest of Oman, as a little autonomous chunk of what would logically be the UAE. Control of the Musandam Peninsula, however, gives Oman partial control over the Straits of Hormuz, which, it seems, is of some strategic interest to them.

So onward we went, back to the border we had crossed the day before, shelling out more cash and heading back into the UAE. We scrutinized the map, and it seemed there was a road that would allow us to move directly to the border, through the mountain range we had driven around the day before.  And so it was toward that mountain range that we drove.

A lack of signage made locating the exact road difficult, but we learned from a passing truck that athough no signs indicated it, we had indeed found the correct road.

We were somewhat surprised, however, when we asked the truck driver for his estimate of the time it would take to reach the second Omani border: four hours. This was more, even, than the time it had taken to drive all the way around the mountains the day before.

The reason for the estimate, however, became apparent as the road soon dissolved into a gravely mountain pass. Then it began to get steep. And soon we had exceeded the capabilities of our beloved Previa.

While the lifeless jagged landscape through which we drove was both beautiful, terrible, and strangely inviting, we decided that we needed to turn back, lest we end up stranded or worse, trapped in a snarl of twisted metal at the bottom of some savage lifeless valley.

We made sure, however, to take a few glam shots of the Previa, of course, in this dramatic landscape.

Back on honest bitumen, we tore on, around the mountains down the same roads on which we’d come, eventually turning toward the UAE.

We drove past a few giant oil-pumping and refining stations, some of which were emitting huge plumes of flame.

We stopped once again in Ras Al Khaima, this time for dinner. We wandered the streets for a while before selecting a Shawarma restaurant. The food was amazing, following our so far golden trend of truly succulent meals consisting always of hummus, salad and some meat dish, this time Shawarma.

We stopped again at a giant night market that sprang up out of the empty, pitch black desert. We wandered around looking for a  rest room, but instead found a sleeping encampment of nomads. I decided to pee elsewhere and we moved on.

Soon we found ourselves in the much larger city of Fujairah, capital of the Emerate of Fujairah, where it was time to eat some more. We spotted a giant LuLu’s hypermarket, and decided to indulge our fascination with foreign grocery stores.

Inside, we found some really fantastic products, which I would like to share with you now:

The selection was truly dizzying.

In the end we settled on a few of those sticky sweet Arabic pastries, the most well known (in America) of which is, of course, Baklava. Jackson also insisted on a certain Arabic ice cream he is quite fond of. It was all delightful.

I purchased a non-alcoholic beer (the only kind you can get in the UAE without some serious paperwork) . It was undrinkable.

And then we were at the border of Oman, once again. A very tall, dark, confident, and pleasantly exotic smelling man in a flowing white gown and intricate Omani hat stamped our passports, charged us another hearty fee, and together with the other three workers at the border warmly welcomed me to Oman, taking my hand and shaking it. So far the best border experience of the entire trip.

We drove on through the night, in search of a city known as Sohar, fabled to be the birthplace of none other than Sinbad the Sailor himself, a character I will not take the time to elaborate on in this post, but whose Wikipedia article is well worth a skim at least.

It took a few hours, and a wrong turn that lead us to a giant oil refinery was emitting multiple plumes of startlingly large flame, but we eventually arrived in Sohar. We immediately headed to the sketchiest outskirts to find a nice empty beach on which to set up the Hotel Previa. Instead we found a large public beach, next to a large public park. We were exhausted though and, trusting our luck, we just unloaded the bikes, locked them to a palm tree, and went to sleep.

This night, we let the engine run, with air conditioning on (albeit at the lowest setting). It was so humid on this beach that as we slept, the cool, air conditioned exterior of the windows began to collect condensation which ran in slow drops down the glass as we slept like babies.

Our alarms went off bright and early,  and for once my SIM city 2000 theme blended in with a cacophony of ringtones that pulled our team into the already blazing sunny morning. We even got the opportunity to catch Sid on his way out of the house for work. He looked well ironed and dapper, and greeted us with a big smile. “Off to Oman today then?”

Right he was. The night before, as Scott and Claudia were bringing up her long lost and finally recovered baggage, we had explained to Sid the rental car swap that we had initiated yesterday and he most graciously offered to assist us in engineering an equitable termination of our deal with Stellar Rent a Car. They were none too eager to take the vehicle back, but in the end, we were able to pay them for about a day and a half of rental, and though some discussion of a petrol fee had occurred earlier during our iteration, none was ever levied.

But before we could head toward the wild desert, we had some exciting gifts to open. First was the Dawn Patrols. We opened the boxes and uncovered two pairs of very attractive spectacles. The new sunglasses had that spotlessly clean warm gleam one finds in showroom automobiles. There were two pairs, one in black, with silver lenses, the other in a kind of tortoise shell, with gold lenses.

We tried them both on, but it seemed obvious from early on that the black ones would best fit Scott and the brown ones me.  I put the glasses on my face and admired the world around me, then admired myself in the  mirror. These were going to be the perfect glasses for Prevlaunch. We also unfolded and inspected Claudia’s new Dahon.

She was a beautiful specimen, also gleaming and new, with a black matte finish, and black matte seat post and folding apparatus, and a set of tasteful beige-wall tires. They were not, however, our beloved Schwalbe big apples, the kevlar lined tires. As you, dear reader, already know, we had not suffered a single flat. “Are these kevlar lined?” I asked.

“So says the man who sold it to me at Providence Cycles.”

Fair enough. With Jackson and Claudia sporting brand new folding cycles, one might suspect Scott and I to look back toward our filthy and beaten up Speed TRs longing for new equipment. This is, however, decidedly not true. Instead, I looked back at my dear Speed TR and thought: just look at what one of these things can do. I reflected on all the places my cycle had been, all the different streets over which it had rolled, and the thousands of kilometers that we had put on them. And they were by no means on their last legs. It is a fine machine, the Dahon folding bicycle, and I was thrilled to see two fresh ones entering the world.

We loaded all the cycles into the only Toyota we had left,locked the car, and headed to an Indian restaurant across the street from the rental agency. The restaurant supplied us with a very large and inexpensive amount of curried mutton and roti, served with a giant platter of fresh onions, tomatoes, and lemon wedges.

Part way through the meal, our Malaysian friend from Stellar ran across the street to explain to me in Indonesian that our new Previa was parked illegally and I needed to feed the meter. I had no idea that we even needed to pay to park. Luckily all was well, and he even spotted me some change to feed the meter. A fine chap indeed.

Back at the restaurant, while we were picking at the last of the food, Jackson and Claudia headed around the corner to an electronics shop. The Previa had only a tape deck, which as any experienced road tripper knows is superior to all except the AUX-in jack, in terms of its ability to pipe audio straight from an iPod or laptop. All we needed was an 8^th inch to cassette cable, of which they had a few in stock.

Without further ado, we headed out into the desert, scanning the road for signs, scrutinizing our maps. Then we were finally on the main road to Musandam, listening to a little of the old Podquiz. Spirits could not be higher, as we drove through the desert completely legally at 140-160 Km per hour, depending on the ever-changing speed limits. The sun was bright, but it was cool and quiet as we blasted along inside the Previa.

It was our dream, turned reality: listening to Nas’ Illmatic, arguing about bits of trivia, drinking Red Bull, and tearing through the beautiful desert at 90 miles per hour. AsiaWheeling strikes again.

Our first stop was in a rather industrial Emirate called Ras Al Khaima.

The capital city is situated on a river, and as such makes it an ideal hub for manufacturing and transporting  materials around the UAE. One of the traditional focuses of Ras Al Khaima, I believe, is cement manufacturing.

We were interested in getting a drink, gasoline, and directions to the border of Oman. So we pulled off the main road and began cruising. The place was sun-drenched, industrial, and fascinating. We spotted a blended drinks shop along the side of another small road, and parked the Previa, heading through the blazing sun and into the cool shade of the interior of the shop.  Inside we found a friendly and large staff, a small restaurant, and an astonishingly succulent 90 cent avocado smoothie with fresh crushed pistachios on top.

Jackson and I had the avocado, while Scott and Claudia chose some kind of pomegranate crème.

We drank our smoothies, across a broken concrete road from the shop and watched the ballet of shipping and industry performing before us.  The smoothies went fast, and after we had tossed the Styrofoam cups, we headed out on foot in search of a rest room. We were not sure whether the laws for public urination involved chopping off  hands or worse, so we headed into an HSBC branch office.  Out of curiosity, we probed the staff there in hopes of acquiring literature on sharia-compliant mortgage loans, though were not able to walk away with anything substantial.

The women inside were very friendly, and though they did not know exactly how to get to Oman, they gave us some general clues. They were the first women in full Burka that I had ever interacted with and I could only see part of each woman’s face, but I must admit, I found both of them quite attractive… something like the allure of  conversing with someone at masked ball.

We followed their directions, across a bridge to a gas station where I took great pleasure in filling up the entire tank for 11 USD.

When we got back on the road, we discovered it was only 10 or 15 kilometers to the border. It had become very dusty, and it was through a kind of dust fog that we made our way to the ocean, and with it, a small but well fortified Emirati customs station.

It was a strict, but very relaxed border experience. We were asked to park our car, then get out and wander over to a window with our passports. The officials spoke good English and were very polite. The politeness continued as well, even as they charged us each a hefty exit fee.

From there, we were flagged by a Emirati soldier onward into no man’s land, which we made short work of, arriving at Omani passport control a few minutes later. There too, we encountered polite workers, in flowing white robes, speaking great English, and charging us plenty of money. We paid in Emirati Dihrams, having not gotten our hands on any Omani Reils yet.

The dust began to clear as we drove on, along a beautiful, brand new, empty road. To our right there were great jagged, completely plant-less cliffs.

To our left was the deep, clear blue of the Straits of Hormuz.

We pulled over at a beach,  and headed down to look more closely at the sea.  It was gorgeous, and made all the more so by the polarized lenses on our brand new Dawn Patrols.

We climbed back in the Previa and drove a few more miles, until we noticed a fellow wheeler heading along the side of the road, and pulled over to give him our hearty support.  We congratulated the chap, giving him a can of Red Bull to aid him on his journey.

Wheel safe brother, wherever you are.

And then we were in Khasab. Khasab is a small hamlet, but the largest in Musandam.

It was an import/export town, and if what we had read was correct, supported itself largely with the business of illegally transporting cigarettes and other taxable goods on super high-speed boats, across the straits of Hormuz to Iran.  And sure enough, as we drove we saw quite a few boats with what looked like a redundant number of giant off-board motors.

We began investigating hotels, but quickly learned that they were all quite expensive.

So we tabled the mission of finding somewhere to sleep, and instead drove to the beach.

It was a gravelly beach, and following the precedent of the locals, we pulled the Previa onto the gravel and ran into some nearby caves to change into our bathing suits.

We quickly discovered that the thing to do here was to cliff jump.

So after swimming around a bit in the rocky beach area, we climbed up the rocks to the top of some nearby cliffs.

We spent the remainder of the sunlight jumping off the rocks, from ever higher outcroppings into the crystal clear blue water.

Ah, life was good.

We climbed back into the Previa after the sun had set and began searching for food. The place we ended up settling on was a kind of outside café. The owner was very opinionated about what we should order, so we let him have his way and soon out came some soups and salads and hummus, followed by roasted fish, and finally tea.  It was all quite delicious, and we ate at the single wooden table, sitting in a pool of fluorescent light that poured out of the kitchen. As we leaned back, savoring the bits of flavor left in our mouths, it seemed once again that a more foolish man might think the deck was full of aces.

After the meal, we headed to a very down-to-earth Sheesha café, where we lounged around smoking water pipes, sitting on plastic chairs outside a crumbling cinder block structure, and drinking tea.

Meanwhile all around us, old men with beards in flowing white robes, discussed very serious sounding topics. Claudia was the only woman in the place, and she explained to us, was probably technically not even allowed inside. “These kinds of places are men only,” she explained, “but we’re just Gaijin smashing this one.”

“Gajin Smashing” is a term from the Japanese expatriate community, for when a foreigner is allowed to do something that is generally not allowed or frowned upon, simply because he or she is a foreigner. It’s an interesting notion, that of women being banned from this place. Were we being disrespectful in coming here, smashing our way in with a woman? Or we were doing some strange kind of God’s work? Speculation is welcomed in the comments.

When we were done with the hookahs, we paid the startlingly small bill, and drove around until we decided we had found the absolute cheapest hotel in town (still a pretty ritzy place), and after haggling over the price, the owners explained to us that it would be strictly against the rules for all four of us to stay in a room, and that we needed to get two rooms at least. This seemed crazy. One room already was nearly 70 dollars. So, in frustration, we decided to just leave and sleep in the car on the beach, in what we dubbed the “Hotel Previa.”

We brushed our teeth in the bathroom of the hotel and then departed crunching back onto the gravel of the beach, and pulled up next to the cliff wall that contained the caves in which we’d changed.

We unloaded the cycles from the back of the car and locked them to the rim of the Previa. We then leaned all the seats back, passed around the bottle of Klonapin, and, after doing a quick 20 minute round of trivia fell into a most delightful and peaceful slumber.

Meanwhile the moon and stars shone brightly, reflecting off the tranquil Straits of Hormuz, and the occasional cigarette-smuggling power boat skimmed off toward Iran.