It's raining in the Frankincense Land

By Shynil Hashim

Chasing the South East Monsoon at Salalah, Oman. 


It was all soaked when we hit the tarmac of an old port town – Salalah, the land of frankincense. Pretty late into the night, we were held captive in the Embraer 175 flight of Oman Air, making us impatiently wait for our air-stair. The delay, thanks to the calming drizzle outside, was in no mood to cease. The endless wait evoked mixed emotions. The sight of rain brought in immediate happiness. However, this unexpected wait not only frustrated us but also triggered in us a slight fear of our car rental company, Budget, closing before we make it past passport control. The khareef season as we learnt later, sees regular and additional flights full, hotel rents quadrupling and car rental companies working round the clock allaying our unwanted fears.

Khareef (Arabic: خريف‎, autumn) is a colloquial Arabic term used in southern Oman, southeastern Yemen, southwestern Saudi Arabia and Sudan for the southeastern monsoon. The monsoon affects Dhofar Governorate and Al Mahrah Governorate from about June to early September. Towns such as Salalah depend upon the khareef for water supply. An annual Khareef festival is held in Salalah to celebrate the monsoon and attracts several tourists.

The air-stair arrived and we maintained our decency to not butt in to rush for the door. As usually seen, passengers from the Indian subcontinent have a premature evacuation problem that ends up tugging their co-passengers in the ribs and occasionally spilling cabin luggage on to their heads. If you are travelling into the region for the first time and have plenty of the sub-continent’s men in your flight, beware to take care of your head.

Once we exited the shuttle bus, we hurried to get our passports stamped. The frantic thought of the rental company closing only resulted in longer strides to the immigration desk. I was the first passenger to reach the counter. I held my 50 dirhams tight and ready to shove it into the officer’s hands. However, upon turning behind saw no signs of Shahid. I forgot that as foreigners we have to fill forms which Shahid had the presence of mind to.

GCC residents are granted on arrival visa at Oman’s entry points via road or air. If you are a dependent, please ensure that your sponsor joins you or permits you a solo trip via written NOC. Entry charges are OMR 5 per person. For land crossings, the exit charges are 35 AED except at Hatta Border. Also make sure your car has Oman insurance for the period of stay and a No Objection Letter in case you are using a rent-a-car service. Finally and most importantly, your passport and resident visa should have a minimum of 6 months validity.

The car was a spotlessly red coloured 1.6L Nissan Sunny. One look at all neighbouring cars told us of the fate that awaited our Nissan. Most cars, if not all, were covered in thick monsoon mud that their registration plates could be hardly traced.

With no internet access, relying on a nearly primitive method we enquired our way to Hotel Darbat. Booking.com facilitated securing a comfortable and spacious twin bed at 40 OMR a night though a better bet (for cheaper deals) would be to call the hotel directly said the concierge. Booking sites buy rooms at rates one third the price which in turn is sold to us at fancy rates depending on the demand. It’s a win-win for both the customer and hotel if they talk to each other directly during the high season. Already past midnight we crashed into our beds winding the alarm for a 5am rise.

After a quick breakfast at the Pakistani restaurant nearby, we headed southward for Shaat. During the khareef season, it drizzles as usual throughout the day. Windshield wipers constantly sway to and fro while the car’s body amass mud.

Dense fog, hairpin curves, a military check-post and 80 kilometres away, Shaat isn’t a popular tourist spot. Even our hotel staff wasn’t aware of the location. The deviation to Shaat from the highway features as M100 on Google Maps. One should be careful about speeding 4x4s and camel herds crossing. An unfortunate sight was a broken Corolla that rammed into a camel whose belly burst open with its blood staining the road red. The Toyota’s roof evidently suggested reckless speed, that too in dense fog, which sent the camel flying above it.

Just after the check-post, before Shaat, is a cliff on your left hand side that overlooks a gorge. Look down and one could see fluffy clouds almost floating by your feet. A place above the clouds perfect for photo enthusiasts including narcissistic selfie takers.




Deviating into Shaat, the signboards promised the sea view point we were in pursuit of and a bonus sink hole that we didn’t plan. The view point as seen in photographs was a cliff which like the earlier place has clouds floating in mid air. The place was covered in dense fog that reduced vision to less than 10 metres. We waited for nearly an hour for the fog to clear but to no avail.

Traversing to the sink hole opened up scenes as in fairytales. Trees of the same species but never the same character stood lost in time. They were moss-covered and had a thick undergrowth of grass. Their pristine beauty looked like it was the first day of creation of planet earth, inspiring you to pen poems even if you don’t have the taste or ability for such literary hardships. Pictures and words only tell half the story. In the midst of this heavenly experience, we were in no mood to photograph or talk but to soak in it completely. The characteristic symphony of little birds chirping and tweeting in the mist elevated the feeling of being inparadise. Not a decibel of noise. If there was a paradise, here it is in Salalah, what probably resembled Eden garden, where the leaves are fluorescent green, fresh as how mint would taste while the morning dew slowly drenches you. Never making you shiver in cold but yearning for more and more and more. One could spend hours, perhaps even days, simply sitting and staring into yonder without even without the typical company of a book and its partner - the tea glass.

 
(please watch in HD)

On our way back, the highway runs on the edge of a cliff that overlooks a beach. The signage read Fezayah. Let’s say it was chance that made us stop at the cliff. The beach looked interesting, and even better was the route, a winding dirt track, that offered to take us to the turquoise waters. Downhill the track, contrasting images were to unfold. At least a hundred camels were grazing in the green forest which had been a desert mountain until a few weeks back. A pleasant mismatch. The ship of the desert now anchored in an amazingly different terrain. Further downhill, we saw a herd of cows nibbling grass off a carpet of green. Negotiating all this, we finally reached the beach. An unexplored shore, rich in pebbles and fossils of fish, whose only visitors were us and a bunch of Saudi men who drove 2500 kilometres from Riyadh. They generously offered a share of their lunch which comprised of grilled fish, khuboos and some superb tea under the shade of a large balancing rock. Even in the absence of a common language, we exchanged our Instagram profiles and vowed to stay in touch there. We bid goodbyes to our new friends and the beach. As we left, we dawned on an inner conflict - whether we should make Fezayah popular to our immediate world or not. Disturbing images of plastic waste leave in us a fear even as we share the virgin beach here.




Our next stop was Mughsayl, a popular beach on the southern side of the Salalah governorate. Abundant with pebbles and abuzz with the season’s tourists, we decided to not venture into the beach, instead focus on having our late lunch as quickly as possible. After sampling fruits and sweet corn, we lay our order for chicken roasted in an oven that was fuelled by hot granite chips. Dressed chicken is laid to rest upon a mixture of burning coal and stones. The entire process takes about an hour with no oil or any other spices added. While the taste isn’t unique, the method is. It is best consumed with rice or khuboos which normally is sold extra. The total damage to the wallet was roughly $8 for the two of us.

An Omani Riyal is approx 9.51 AED or 2.59 USD. Each Riyal constitutes 1000 baisa. Food for the car and fuel for the body are relatively (compared to UAE) cheap in Oman.

Turned off by the crowd, we didn’t visit Marnif Cave and Mughsayl’s natural fountain. These are very close to this beach. We were told that underground gush of water jets out of a blow hole creating a splendid fountain. Pictures on the internet confirmed the same. The cave opens to majestic views of the Arabian Sea. We regret not going there and all travellers are advised to make these destinations an essential part of their itinerary.

Our first day was coming to a close and we had already got our airfare’s worth though Wadi Darbat was yet to be experienced. Having spent considerable time basking in nature’s glory at Shaat and Fezayah, we had to drop Nabi Ayoub’s Tomb which apparently stood on the top of a hill. In the Bible, he is referred to as Prophet Job. In and around Salalah are tombs of holy men who seem to be of gigantic build much like how folklore goes about the height of those men from ancient days. After Maghrib prayers at the Salalah Grand Mosque, we went back to the hotel for a quick shower. Already exhausted but with still a couple of hours left to hit the sack, we decided to visit the local souq.

Husn Souq is typical Middle Eastern market aplomb with scents of spices, food, barber shops, handicrafts, garments and most things tradable. A strong aroma of frankincense, bukhoor and perfume hit you as one enters the market. Bargaining skills are a prerequisite if you intend to purchase. While buying frankincense, we learnt that only Omanis are allowed to sell this merchandise. This nationalization must be due to heritage reasons. Frankincense, a resin obtained from its tree, is considered to be Oman’s gift to the world. By leaving it to burn with charcoal, it produces an incense smoke that is normally used in traditional households and establishments. It is also believed to ward away microorganisms and germs thereby keeping the air purified.

On our second day, also being the last, after having missed an alarm by an hour, we set out for Wadi Darbat at quarter to seven. Middle Eastern habits tend to encourage staying up and waking up late. With very little trace of cars, in any direction, we cruised at top speed comfortably. Light rain and Shahabaz’s ghazals played in the background while we engaged in some serious conversations disgusting our home state, as usual, for the lack of effort for conservation of nature.

The highway to the wadi runs northward and parallel to the sea. The landscape and its color are very desert-ish along this road. However it was noticed where there was a slight slope or inclination, like the edge of the road, a layer of bright green moss or grass covered it. Perhaps this incline traps water from the monsoon fog which causes the hue. A signage instructed us to turn left for the wadi. From here the uphill drive to the mountains of Dhofar starts. As the road wound and a few curves later, one is taken back by the surprisingly sudden change in landscape. A magical transformation from the desert to an almost tropical forest happens in less than a kilometer or two. The fog thickens, drizzle force the windshield wipers to sway, headlights and hazard-lights signal caution and we roll down windows to breathe in air as fresh as a daisy.




click to enlarge
A couple of shops and public toilets inform that you are in the immediate vicinity of the wadi. As we slowly manoeuvred, the sight of lavish green carpets from where emerged trees, on whose branches the season’s creepers coiled, sent us innumerable invitations. A call that is hard to ignore. We finally answered. Lo! The distant wadi silently flowed on the edge of those trees. Invisible birds composed meditative background score to fill in this spectacular scene. An illusion beyond words. I stood like a magnet where the wide slow rider ended. At this point, it narrowed into a little stream that flowed further away into the mountains. After having spent an hour, we sped to the end of the road – the tourist spot where kayaking, boating, hot kebabs and other culinary persuasions awaited. Though restricted (on safety grounds by the authorities) to a small area, kayaking in the wadi is a serene experience even though you are slightly busy negotiating the waterway with other tourists. Be careful not to give into the temptation to swim. Snails harboured in these clear waters are known to cause bilharziasis – a disease which we are told is chronic.



Having spent quality time at the wadi and still not satisfied enough, we headed towards Mirbat. Somewhere in the highway is a road that takes you to the mystery hill also known as magnetic hill. Once again, thanks to the lack of a signage, we lost our way to the old city of Mirbat. We are grateful to our stars for having landed us in a place that froze in time. The old city of Mirbat houses a castle which is now a museum. Further down the road are dilapidated houses, alleys and decades old shops. We even saw stray dogs, a sight we rarely encounter anywhere in Arabia. While some houses were abandoned, the others were still breathing. A walk in this small maze of buildings brings you sounds and sights its past. The Mercedes Benzes and an abandoned Guatemala made GMC school bus suggest modernity and tradition living well in harmony.




Mirbat is a town by the seaside where dhows are anchored in high seas waiting with baits that fetch their daily bread. Being from Dubai, we were only used to seeing these vessels holding cruise parties that served food with blaring music,  gleaming light and fizzy drinks.

The magnetic hill is 600 metres away to the left (when driving from Salalah) just before the lone Al Maha petrol station. From this junction, Mirbat is roughly 11 kilometres. There is no signage to mark the exact magnetic point. And again thanks to that, we lost our way to a scenic drive up the misty mountains. On our return, we had to enquire for the magnetic point which is in front a waiting shelter. Shift the gears to neutral and the momentum gathers up to 60kmph as the road flattens.

The last major stop in the trip was Sumhuram, a partially restored port town on a hill that overlooked a lagoon which also functioned as a natural harbour then. History suggests that the town traded frankincense with India, Africa and China. As the sun signalled a close, we could see camels replenishing their water tanks from the old harbour.

It wouldn’t have been complete had we not tasted Salalah’s tender coconut water. Being a Keralite, it was only innate to yearn for this natural drink that is bottled and tamper proof sealed from high rise plants. Unlike Southeast Asian varieties, the Arabian one fizzed a bit. The government owns farms that cultivate in large numbers crops like plantain, coconut and papaya. Kerala, are you listening?

After we parked at the airport and unloaded our backpacks, the sight of heavy dirt on our car signalled a gratifying trip.



Travelers & Photos:
Shynil Hashim
Shahid Mohammed

© travel & tales

The Palette of Life called Kolkata

By Shahid Mohammed


Summer was 44 Deg C and limiting myself to a congested air-conditioned room seemed suicidal on an extended weekend. There wasn't a better idea than travelling. It was Eid and the airfares were soaring high. I scrolled down my wish list to see what could fit into my budget. Kolkata! I badly needed to get soaked in the rains. Been reading Alexander Frater, it was literally Chasing the Monsoon for me. Though it was sad to forcefully limit the trip to just 3 days for the sake of a better flight deal.

Dubai-Kolkata had a stopover at New Delhi. Terminal 2 of Indira Gandhi International Airport, New Delhi, with its state of art facilities, is one of the best transit locations you can get in India.
All major airlines have direct or connecting flights with Netaji Subash Chandra Bose Airport, Kolkata. If you are a foreigner,check India's visa policy before you book your tickets.


Kolkata Airport welcomes one with Tagore's own manuscript, printed on the ceiling. I collected my prepaid taxi coupon from the counter. Approaching one of those yellow Ambassador cars in queue, my heart was pounding faster. I got in the rickety old car and felt my persona switching to that 5 year old kid who was taken to school in a white ambassador car every morning. I breathed in the smell of 'rexin' which the seats were made of. Call me mad when I say the smell too felt the same. For us Indians, the comfort of the back seat of an 'Ambassador' cannot be beaten even by a Mercedes.

Through the busy roads of the city, cars, buses and motorbikes seemed to be screaming at each other and the pedestrians, as if the horns of the vehicles were connected to accelerator and brake pedals. (Honking is a driving habit in India but felt a bit more prominent in Kolkata).




Road travel in Kolkata can be a nerve wrecking experience until you get accustomed to. Taxis, buses, auto-rikshaws(tuk-tuk) and trams are common ways of commuting on road. Tuk-tuks are shared by upto 5 persons, though it can hardly contain 3. The yellow taxis charge the meter reading, however the drivers often find reasons to add 20-25 rupees to it. Air conditioned taxis charge 25% higher. Also late night hours have a surcharge. Underground metro and sub-urban trains too serve big time in connecting the city.

Human Pulled Rikshaws or carts are another conventional and prevalent means of transport. These carts have been discouraged since a decade and a legislation was passed to ban it, however continues to operate as rehabilitation plans of the rikshaw pullers did not fall  in place.

This track of 'Rabindra Sangeet' may catalyst the rest of the journey with me


I had booked a home-stay for the 3 nights. Red Brick Residency, a typical two storeyed Bengali heritage house, with lots of books, vintage stuff and furniture, a courtyard with trees and bespoke home cooked food. Though a bit expensive, it provided me the ambience and space I was yearning for since long. And for this reason alone, I took occasional breaks from my wanderings, to spend time in the majestic corridors, to watch the rain from the window, sipping ginger tea and listening to music from an old record box.

click to enlarge
Stepping out of the house, I had concerns on reaching the old town of North Kolkata and its passion nested alleys in the short time I was there. But interestingly, taking the metro and walking randomly, I ended up in the places I had pictured within. Google Maps weren't of much help betrayed by the broken data roaming.

Calcutta, as I would like to mention it, may be the only portion of British-India left with that majestic old face. The brick red buildings of colonial past, now with huge banyan trees grown over, are homes for many families in the city. It drizzled, and life reflected on the wet roads. The yellow taxis made squeaky noises while braking. Some rikshaw pullers converged themselves under the tiny roof of their cart, some others got wet; some of their passengers had rainbow coloured umbrellas unfolded. I stood on the divider of the road, my camera-bag covered in its raincoat, hugging this obsession called monsoon. Monsoon had always gifted me a rejuvenating feel; inspiration and life showered with the rains.

As I walked further, the rain gave way to the afternoon sun. Makeshift tea shops on the wayside were busy brewing. Thick-milked tea kept boiling on kettles-typically served in (cup cake sized) mudkas or earthen cups fuelled heated conversations on politics, arts and literature.


Home to many of India's greatest poets, film makers, artists and scholars, Kolkata upheld that air of creative energy. The operator at one of the machine shops passionately talked to me in broken Hindi of the huge video cameras of his brother whom he said is a documentary film maker.

I walked ahead and the trams passed by my side making grungy, clanking noises justifying its age and history. Kolkata has the oldest running trams in Asia and the only active one in India. Though many tram routes were being closed down after independence, I hold a prayer to keep these nerve lines of the city alive and healthy.




My romance with Calcutta got intensified with every turn I took in those maze of labyrinths. I wished the walls had voices, for the buildings there would have stories to tell. In one of the windows was seen a woman with a subtle expression, her face neatly fitted within the four wooden frames across a honeycomb grill.  When I urged to click, she gestured a no and I continued my walk with a curious mind.

It rained on and off shooing away the hot-sweaty feel. Kids played soccer on the wet lanes while a procession was moving on the main road celebrating the 125th anniversary of Mohun Bagan FC.

I realize that from a very shy boy, I've grown up to someone who is ok with the crowd. Or maybe it is my anonymity that is getting me closer to them. With many random thoughts and a very excited mind, I walked through the busy evening markets of Calcutta. Undeterred by the heavy rains, women crowded near ramshackle fancy stores on footpaths. One of the best beauty genes of India reside with West Bengal. Leaving far all beauty notions from Hollywood and Bollywood, Bengal defines its indigenous charm. Every women or girl you encounter on the street has grace.

It was almost 5 in the evening when I started realizing that I hardly had any food the whole day. Despite of the incessant walks over unaccounted kilometers, Kolkata charged me with energy all the way. Yet, I decided not to leave my tummy empty. In that random restaurant I popped in, I was served with a mixed cuisine of hot and sweet dosa garnished with raisins, grated coconut and green chutney along.


The night was spent in IIM Kolkata with a friend and traveller soul, Azhar. He was the one who accompanied me to Jordan, now doing his Post Graduation there. Though the wilderness of the green in the campus was soothing to my mind, there was some level of discomfort I sensed being inside a fenced one.  I was reconfirming that I cannot fit into campus academics anymore, the world outside being my classrooms since long.


Another day was born. Kids rejoiced showering in wayside-open-bath-spaces. Hairdressers got busy under banyan trees. ‘College Street’ was active with its routine business; the street is nick named 'Boi Para' or 'Colony of Books' for it exhibits an array of academic book shops selling textbooks for almost any course above secondary school. College Street is enroute to Calcutta Medical College, the University of Calcutta and many other colleges. I was to have my breakfast from the legendary Indian Coffee House of Calcutta, which witnessed the city's intelligent gatherings for decades. Being carried away by the diverse colours of life in that part of city, I missed the Coffee House. Sigh!! But glad it added another reason to visit Calcutta a second time.


Life in Kolkata extends over a wide range of spectrum, often to extremes that an outsider finds hard to perceive. Streets of the city are home to many. Life in various degrees co-exist with joy and sorrow under flimsy roofs or no roofs. Impoverished kids are either petting stray dogs or helping their parents to earn their daily bread. Amidst the hardships and poverty, life continues in full swing; blessed are they with great souls that need no guides on living content. From them are big lessons for the rest of world

It struck two in the clock when I reached back Jatin Das Park Metro Station. I decided to savour homemade lunch that day, though Kolkata's street food scene was tempting me to the heavens. I took two deep breaths suppressing my temptations for a better experience of food tasting with Kolkata Food Walk that evening. They are a bunch of passionate youngsters proud of their home town and its culinary culture. These food walkers are ready to take you round gifting the best times for your taste buds. It was Srotoswini who accompanied me along the 'tasty-roads' of Kolkata. She was keen to explain me the ingredients of each item we tasted and it was surprising to know from her that Kolkata stays different from the rest of West Bengal in savories. Singara, King Kachori, Rabri, Fish Rolls, Sandesh, Rasmalai... the mouth-watering list goes on. But we had to wind up as rains got stronger, with a promise to continue on a second visit to Kolkata. When you treat your taste buds with them, don't forget to give a pat on their back in form of tips.

On the third day I greeted the sun at the Howrah. Rabidrasethu aka the Howrah Bridge stood tall above the On the third day I greeted the sun at Howrah. Rabidrasethu aka the Howrah Bridge stood tall above the Hooghly (river). For a moment everything seemed as a black and white film roll except for those yellow taxis. The steel trusses ran criss-cross making beautiful patterns of light and shadows. Gradually as the rain clouds gathered over, the bridge seemed to be a silent witness of the tale of emergence of the city. 


Bigger stories were happening down and around the bridge. Ferries moved people across the Hooghly, fishermen prepared for a fresh catch by mending their nets, people washed and bathed. A teenager by the ferry refused the packet of Oreo cookies that I offered, but demanded to clean my shoe which is how he earned his bread. Next to all these was the Mullick Ghat Flower Market. From a distance, the market appeared as a community of bees bustling in a garden of flowers, so lively and busy in the early hours of the day. On the marshy mud of the market was a lot of faded lives, hiding behind the blazing yellow chrysanthemums, blood red roses and blushing pink lotuses.


Taking a taxi to Victoria Memorial, it was all green around. Even the Raj Bhavan seemed to be fenced by trees such that from outside, the building was only seen through the road that went straight from its gate. Victoria Memorial is that magnificent marble building built almost a century ago in memorial of Queen Victoria, under the order of Lord Curzon, the then Viceroy of British India. 

Walking from the Sudder street to the Park Street Cemetery, I got lost. When Google Maps was sure that I was in front of the Cemetery, all I could see was a multi-storeyed car parking building. It didn't seem to be a wise decision to have an ugly looking concrete cube before a heritage site. Park Street Cemetery is one of the oldest non-church Christian cemeteries in the world and the largest outside Europe and America in 19th Century (info: wikipedia). I found my way inside the cemetery through a hole in the wall that seemed like another car parking. Walking through the moss covered paths, I was rather walking into a past century. On the huge tombs in Gothic and Indo-Saracenic styles were epitaphs engraved in marble, beautifully talking about the life of people buried there. Light rays sieved in between the trees that shaded the place. Reading the past from the tombs, I spent almost an hour of time there.

Two days being in Kolkata, I started thinking and reading seriously on Mother Teresa and her time in India. I decided to visit Nirmal Hriday, the home for the sick, destitute and dying, at Kalighat.  The road that led to Kalighat Temple and the adjacent Nirmal Hriday was lined with shops that sold beads and bands often associated with temple living. There was a big queue of women before a public tap and some shops that sold music instruments. Knocking on the doors of Nirmal Hriday, somebody answered from a window that Thursday is closed for visitors. Desperate, I walked back. Beside the narrow alleys were women, lazily clad in saree, adorning their lips with bright red lipsticks and jasmine flowers held in their hair. Kolkata possesses a lot of red-light districts though prostitution is illegal in India..


When the life in Kolkata played in my mind as a reel of images and emotions, I was walking back home, lost in thoughts. My palette was full of colours struggling to perceive 'Life in Kolkata'....
Traveler, Story & Photos:
 Shahid Mohammed

Gratitude :
Kolkata Foodwalk,
MB Azharudeen
& Shynil Hashim












Walking like in a dream; Hanoi



In the wee hours of a November morning, driving through the rain-lashed roads from airport into the city of Hanoi, North Vietnam, the vague sense of familiarity refuses to go.  Characterless concrete buildings line the highway. The infrastructure looks modest.

A timeless walk through Hanoi, Vietnam…

A visa can be applied at the Vietnamese consulate or embassy in your country of residence. If you are a busy man or do not have a Vietnamese embassy within reach, you can apply online. The online process takes normally upto a week for visa issue. An alternate site for the online process is www.vietnam-visa.com, however when we checked last Indian nationals are not listed in this site.

The e-visa takes 20$ for service fee by the agency and another 25$ as stamp fee payable at the passport counter. The online process is valid only for those entering visa through an airport. If you intend to enter by land, the former is the only process. Very few countries (mostly South East Asian) have visa on arrival. Please check if you are on the list.Two passport sized photographs of size 4x6 cms are mandatory.




And then, you enter the Old Quarter. Here, Hanoi feels quaint, cheerful and welcoming for a capital city and is best experienced on foot.




Believed to have been in existence since the 11th century, its 36 streets are said to have been bustling with traders, artisans and merchants selling silk, jewelry and other merchandise. Today, colourful bird cages dot its shop fronts. Flower vendors ride the streets in bicycles bursting with exotic flora.  On the sidewalks, the Vietnamese play games, sell tea and even run makeshift hair salons as the busy traffic rushes past them. Souvenir shops, restaurants, bars and clothing stores hug the chaotic streets jammed with scooters and motorbikes of all possible makes and models. Walking aimlessly, you take in the smells of Vietnamese cooking that seem to mingle with everything that you see and hear.  
History wraps you as you walk past old French buildings towards the city square overlooking the Hoan Kiem Lake. Emerging from the city’s frenzy in the dusky hours, you enter the serene environs of the ancient Ngoc Son Temple along the Lake. Hoan Kiem Lake which means ‘Lake of the Returned Sword’ has its share of legends going back to the 15thcentury.  The great turtle and its species, around which the legends revolve, are believed to still reside in the waters of the lake. The only evidence of it is a stuffed turtle placed within the confines of the temple. Sitting in the temple’s courtyard, you transcend time, watching frail old men playing board games or simply staring at the lake and bonsais through clouds of burning incense. 

As the evening deepens, go to the Thang Long water puppet theater. Walking along the lake’s bank, it is impossible to not feel classical Europe and ancient China staring down on us from the sides.

Thang Long, one of the few spaces in Vietnam to stage this traditional Vietnamese art form, offers visitors an unforgettable glimpse of rural Vietnam from a bygone time when rains were an integral part of life and the simple Vietnamese invented water puppetry as an art form to complement their living conditions.  Through colorful themes and soulful music rendered using traditional instruments, the customs, folklore, festivities and myths of the Vietnamese people are narrated with the aid of wooden puppets in knee-deep water.

As you walk out of the theater late in the evening, awed by the spectacle just witnessed, the Hanoi night life sucks you in. Vibrant and alive with a heady mix of sights, sounds and smells, the pathways entice tourists with delightful street eats and potent local brews.

It is hard to remember the names of dishes. But their konji which is a very close cousin of the South Indian dish kanji, is delicacy and sometimes a relief too for those not into experimenting. Vegetarians will find it hard to find choice in the local menu while non-vegetarians are in for a heavenly treat every day any time of the day. The best options are on the street.

Its famous night market sells everything from clothes to stationery to all kinds of kicks and knacks, not to mention its food quarter selling cheap, delicious local meals and eats. Being a non-English speaking nation, communication takes on a primitive form with the spoken language becoming irrelevant. This makes for exhilarating purchase experiences, not just in Hanoi, but all across Vietnam. Bargains are struck with numbers being frantically punched into calculators by eager buyers and restless sellers. And a lot gets said through vigorous shaking of heads, affirmative nods and broad toothy grins. 

A US dollar fetches 21,000 Vietnamese Dong. Hanoi is relatively very cheap to stay and dine. We stayed Hanoi City Hostel in the Old Quarter at less than 10$ per head per day. If you are not into fancy restaurants, one should easily be able pass the day with a satisfied diet with another 10$.


An enduring symbol of Vietnam’s pride in its history is the vast and impressively conceptualized Ho Chi Minh museum set in the vicinity of the city’s well-groomed political and bureaucratic section.  

The museum is a part of the Ho Chi Minh complex comprising of the Dinh square, the Presidential Palace, the one-pillar pagoda and the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum. A good part of the day can be spent in the complex exploring the life and stature of Vietnam’s most revered revolutionary leader, Ho Chi Minh. The Temple of Literature, Vietnam’s first national university and a Confucian temple is now a heritage site. Built in 1070, the temple has passed through several dynasties, borrowing varied architectural influences over the years.

There is more history waiting at the imposing, Gothic-style, St. Joseph’s church, the oldest church in Hanoi believed to have been inspired by the Notre Dame itself. Within its tall confines, as the service ends, the streets start to light up and the pious quietly stream out. With the night setting in, the sidewalks around the church begin to come alive. Makeshift tables and plastic chairs are put out and the air fills with pulsating music, young chatter, the smell of beer and the clinking of tea cups, completely transforming the mood around the church grounds.  

Well into the night, stumbling back to the hotel, Hanoi feels like a titillating Asian experience in a forgotten European city, drawing us into a thousand years of mystic past in the modern present.

Recommended Travel in Vietnam – On foot as most things are in and around the Old Quarter.


Murali Govindan,
Siljith Kandiyil,
Prasanth
& Rupesh Aravindakshan

Photos: 
Shynil Hashim
Illustrations:
Shahid

© travel & tales

Boundless Roads & Timeless Lands: Oman

By Shynil Hashim & Shahid Mohammed

"Since the time I was replanted to Dubai, it was the road trips that watered the life in me. Quite a lot of them, across the length and breadth of this country, more often equipped with my camera. This time, on this new route, I took my notepad (yes, the one made of paper) and a pen along, having vibes of scribbling out the interesting story on the desert roads of Oman."

3 days, 2138 kms, a Honda Accord sedan and this traveller friend.

(When we realised that the story moves on the same track for both of us, we decided to write the rest of it together.)  

It was a Thursday summer night, and when we hit the road, we weren’t literally freed from the fatigue of the day’s work. The thoughts on destination kept us awake and alive though we knew that new destinations would evolve once we reach one.  It took hardly an hour and half to reach the Hafeet Border of Oman from old town of Dubai.

UAE residents can enter Oman (via road) at any of the 6 border crossings namely Hatta (Dubai), Kalba (Sharjah – Fujairah), Hafeet, Hili, Buraimi (Al-Ain) and Khasab/Dibba (RAK/Fujairah, to Musandam).  Buraimi border is reserved for GCC citizens whereas the rest of border posts serve expatriates too. An on-arrival-visa stamped for 28 days is easy to obtain at a charge of 5 Omani Riyals or 50 AED. The exit emigration charges at UAE border shall be 35 AED except for Hatta border where it is free of charge. Before you leave, please ensure with the Oman Consulate that your profession as stamped on the UAE resident visa can fetch an on-arrival visa. Also make sure your car has Oman insurance for the period of stay and a No Objection Letter in case you are using a rent-a-car service. Finally and most importantly, your passport and resident visa should have a minimum of 6 months validity.

We were hurrying to reach the Nizwah Souq by 7 am, to not miss the chaotic dynamics of the goat market there on Friday Mornings. Killing the ease we often had to pedal the brake; the road works limited our speed to as less as 60 km/hr (normal highway speed is at least 100 km/hr on GCC roads). Nonetheless we made it in time.

A souq or souk is the arabic word for a marketplace or commercial quarter in Middle Eastern and North African cities. 

Nizwah Souq breaks all upheld prejudices conditioned by Dubai living. Here is the Middle Eastern souq that you have been searching for. The ones that only existed in your imagination lavishly fuelled by cinema and reading. This market seemed to be straight out of 1001 Arabian Nights with its withered clay-clad walls and Persian architecture. 

Triggered by that incredible feeling of time travelling, we wandered through the nook and corner of the souq like a 3 year old kid lost in a chocolate forest. By the gateway, across the lanes, under the banyan trees; no place failed to mesmerize with that other worldly charm. A lost world. Within moments of reaching there, you get that stark perception of touching real life ‘offline’.

Niswah Souq is a good relief from Pakistanis and Indians trying to sell their wares, mostly Pashmina, perfume or souvenirs, to tourist folk. Here natives sell essential stuff to fellow locals. When they appear in the traditional Omani attire; men with their Taqiya or skull caps and Khanjar, the traditional dagger, women in veils and bright red gowns, it is another day of routine trading goats, spices, pottery, knives and whatever one could sell or money could buy.


You are lucky if you can locate the kebab shop in the middle of the souq. They offer fine delish sandwiches of mutton kebabs and fresh veggies rolled in Arabic bread, the best in town.

Thermometer reading shot up as the day approached noon and we had to check in our hotel room for a shower and an essential power nap. ‘Noor Majan Camp’ is a cottage resort/hotel fifteen kilometres off Niswah City on the way to Salalah. They are finely equipped with wifi, hot shower and clean beds. They also house a restaurant that serves, let’s say, ‘not-so-bad’ food. The rent includes complimentary breakfast. Twin beds cost us 250 AED a night.

Post lunch, we drove uphill Jabal Shams, the breezy cool peak which is also the highest in Oman (Jabal in Arabic means mountain). Sparsely green terrains on the road uphill induced a slightly relieving feel in our minds than what the otherwise barren coffee tinted mountains would have done. It was rather surprising to see that we were the only sedan in the convoy of SUVs raving up.  

An avid traveller won’t rate Jebel Shams as spectacularly scenic. If you are short of time, do avoid going all the way till the top which is best done in a 4x4. The drive till where the asphalt road ends is a pleasure. Better still if accompanied by a good friend and some refreshing music. We hired an SUV driven by an native, charging criminally high with the promise of an exhilarating experience. However, the best part of our visit to Jabal Shams was not the view of the neighbouring peaks or the deep gorge sheltering a village down in the wadi. But a small team of North Pakistanis spending their weekend on the hill top with some soul stirring Pashtun and Qawwali music. Had our driver not pressed us for time, we would have sat all day with them.


On the nearby peak was ‘Misfat Al Abrayeen’, an ancient oasis village perched on the mountains. The place is a maze of ruggedly constructed houses aligned at different levels on the rocks. The cobble stoned labyrinths smoothened by thousands of footsteps across generations suck you into the mysterious truth of desert living in the past. The clay plastered wall often holds above you more storeys of houses, all thatched with date palm leaved roof. On windows hung are the jahla, the earthen pot holding cold drinking water in its pure and traditional way. One would be surprised to know that life on this hill top still continues in its very natural way. The governorate deserves an appreciation for not transforming the place to an air-conditioned spotlighted museum preserved in glass boxes.

Walking in the awe-driven air of the past, one would reach an orchard of date palms, mango trees, lemon, pomegranate, oranges, plantains and what not. That is Misfat oasis maintained with hard labor on arid mountains. Water from a far away spring is uncompromisingly preserved and driven through thefalaj or water channel system for irrigation. If you are an explorer, follow the falaj, climb on to rocks, and you would reach a Wadi or bigger water pools near to the spring. A dip in the cold water would drive off all the physical weariness of climbing uphill. Though we visited the place twice in this trip, we are yet to contain its heritage in its fullest. Our second trip to Misfat Al Abrayeen drew to aclose after we shared the pleasure of a few local kids along with their big brothers dipping in a pool completely and continuously watered by the falaj. By continuous watering, the pool stays fresh and excess water continues to flow out to further channels of the falaj.


Day 2
With us recharged, it was time to hit the road again. Sur from Nizwah is roughly 380 kilometres and is best transited via Izki. The road, for three quarters of the distance, is a dual carriageway and mostly free of radars. At just over 120 kilometres an hour, we cruised through vast sandy emptiness and rocky mountain passes.

Sheer vigilance is essential behind the wheel as the signs displayed warnings of camels crossing, which can be fatal enough to crush the speeding cars as well as the crossing camel folk.

In that stretch, we could rarely spot a place to refresh. The lone coffee shops seemed like they hadn’t opened in a long time. As anticipated and unlike UAE, finding a joint on the highways in Oman (except the Sohar-Muscat route) seemed a tedious task. Amply stocked with snacks and biscuits, we crossed Ibra, Al Qabil and Bidiyah. In some parts of the route, the barren desert land seemed to contain green sprouts prompting us thoughts on the forthcoming khareef (monsoon) season and ensuring we plan a trip to Salalah a few months later. Finally, we made it to Sur by around half past two. The town seemed to be sleeping at the afternoon hour. It took time for us to know about their afternoon break from 1pm to 4.30pm. No shops open during then.
We checked into a restaurant by the corniche which showed signs of being open. The waiter who also managed the place was in the midst of his slumber when we woke him up. While the location faced the sea and offered terrific views of dhows and the lighthouse, we were catered to rubbish expensive food which we had to gulp down without choice.

Finding restaurants in Oman on long stretches is a near impossible task. And finding good ones is one more far step beyond near-impossible. So stuff your car with enough snacks to kill your hunger till you locate a fairly good restaurant. It is important to have enough drinking water reserve in your car if you are driving in the summer heat. The air-conditioner would dehydrate you more than the summer does.


The rest of our day was marked for Wadi Tiwi. Wadis are narrow gorges formed between mountains by the flow of water. Oman has a lot of them, not all perennial. The year-long presence of water in the wadis aids the flora around and thereby human existence, right from historic times. Near Wadi Tiwi was Al Hosn village settlement, but not as old as Misfat Al Abreyeen.  Between the mammoth sandstone mountain peaks, the villagers managed to maintain thick vegetation. Hailing from the once agricultural state of Kerala in India, it was a good moral for us how Omanis grow healthier food on this parched desert land.
With the sea so close by, the air was sticky enough to make us feel irritant. But within the inner self, we rejoiced breathing-in life. We swear, few days away from the LCD monitors were soothing for the senses. Blissfully, we turned our car back to highway alongside the luring pebble beach.

4 kilometres ahead on the highway is Wadi Shab, a similar and more popular water body. Wadi Shab doesn’t have a proper road running all the way.
Unless you have a sturdy 4x4, you may have to walk over gravel and boulders to reach the end of the trail where you can have a dip.

One should be aware of flash floods if the place you drive by has received a fair amount of rain in the recent past. Though the government has managed to fix signboards, it is always advised to be vigilant.

We were ignorant of the turtle reserve nearby Sur until a resident friend told us over a phone call. Ras Al Jinz Turtle reserve is almost 45 kilometres away from Sur and is a breeding coast for marine turtles. Turtles are expected to swim ashore in the night, lay eggs and return before the sunrise. The route to Ras-Al-Jinz curves through the uninhabited coast of the Gulf of Oman and as you reach closer, only your car’s headlights would drive you ahead as there are no streetlights. The turtle reserve authorities have guided tours at 8.30 pm and 4 am. Unfortunately, we missed the information and did not manage to reach there in time. Our adventurous minds couldn’t settle with the fate. We drove through an obscure path on the beach sands guided by Google Maps until we felt a high risk of the sedan getting stuck or having to leave it in an entirely isolated area far from where the turtles nested.

Oman is a relatively safe country and serious crime is rare. The Royal Oman Police are notably efficient and honest. Adding to that you would be surprised to receive Omani hospitality. Most of the locals whom you meet or even pass by wave hands in greeting. However, take permissions before you click close-up photographs or portraits of locals.

Day 3
The day started with the 203km long drive along the coastal road to Muscat(from Sur).  At the 77th km is the Bimmah Sinkhole, smaller and appealing of the two sinkholes in Oman. The teal crystal salty water tempting one into its depths, the limestone layers above sandwiched between the sky and the waters. Its rather a chunk of the bigger gulf saved in within the land.

A sinkhole also known as a sink-hole is a depression in the ground caused by some form of collapse of the surface layer or the chemical dissolution of carbonate rocks 

The engine raved again. Traffic piled up as we entered Ruwi (Muscat) and it was near to noon when we reached Muttrah. Before the shops close for their afternoon break, we had a quick walk through the Muttrah souk. Though about 70 years old, the souk has undergone many stages of maintenance resulting in air-conditioned shops and well lit interiors. One would still love walking through the narrow busy lanes to buy crafts, perfumes and jewellery. Before you leave the souk, make sure you taste the traditional Omani Halwa flavoured with saffron, cardamom, nuts and rose water.

Post a quick lunch at Fazal’s (our friend in Oman) place in Muttrah, we started our long way back home. It was another 450 kilometres from Muscat. But we couldn’t miss to be at the majestic Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque. Fortunately for us, it was en route Dubai. The mosque opened in 2001 after six and a half years of construction. It’s mainly built from Indian sandstone and houses the world’s second largest hand woven carpet and chandelier. It should be noted that the largest similar carpet is in the not-so-distant and fairly recent Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque of Abu Dhabi. The most interesting facet of this mosque is its square prayer hall which can house nearly 6500 worshippers. The walls beautified with intricate floral design, 50 metre high dome and a very aesthetic Imam area. We offered our afternoon prayers in a delightfully tranquil ambience, thanks to Muscat working on that day.

Without further ado, we hit the road again. The 4 lane highway cruising through the capital seemed risen from the ground and finds its way through mountains, allowing a speed limit of a max of 120 kmph and a minimum of 80. As mentioned earlier, the road to Dubai on this route offered plenty of options to refresh. In no time we reached Sohar where we refilled our tank and the car’s. The stretch along Sohar offered views of thick plantain vegetation, one that would put a forest shade to shame, while also sadly reminding us that greener places like Kerala seem inching towards desertification. The social forestry efforts alongside the highway deserve praise. Neem, Banyan and other branching trees have taken over the median and sidewalks.

After Sohar, along the route is the town of Liwa, which practically looked neither busy nor green. A rather impromptu passing town. If you are heading towards Dubai, a left turn after Shinas would take you to the border crossing near Hatta. This one cuts the distance versus the standard crossing before Kalba. One familiar with the route would be well aware of the further Oman border (a part of Oman peeps in again) crossings within UAE. This would mean some delay because of formality checks by the Oman border Police/Military though it requires no additional passport stamps. This portion of Oman also offers a couple of petrol stations on either side of the road, the last chance to fill the tank at a cheaper cost (almost 70 fils lesser per litre). Unfortunately, ours was closed. Lesson being not to wait till the last station.

When it read 2138 kilometres on the trip meter,  we found ourselves hitting the sacks slipping to the memories of this time travelling.

PS: And while we were climbing down Misfat Al Abreyeen way past dusk, the stars shone, a treat very difficult to see in Dubai and other illuminated metropolises. We stopped at a view point downhill to capture the small town of Hamra in distant gaze. We parked our Accord next to an SUV, which suggested a group of locals. Interestingly, it was a group of young local women having a good time sitting on a mat, cracking jokes and sipping tea. I was sceptical if our presence would disturb and make them leave. Totally unbothered by our antics of setting up the tripod to find the right angle, which also suggested that we were in no mood to leave soon, the women went by their own business. That to us was the freedom and security of women that we are all craving and advocating for. And here it is in an otherwise insignificant hamlet called Misfat Al Abreyeen or a small country like Oman. This was beyond the mere cries of expression of women’s freedom by western notions which is mostly the right to wear anything but the Abhaya. This notion put to testimony by the many videos which seem to suggest ‘real freedom’ by what Afghan and Iranian women wore in the early 70s. And as we write this piece, the whole of India woke up to this horrific news in another sleepy hamlet in Northern India.

Checklist for a long drive

  • First and foremost, ensure the fitness of the car, including presence of spare tyre and tool kit.
  • Well and good if your car has a cruise control. It would help save gas and your energy as well.
  • Ensure right papers both for yourselves and the car. 
  • Make a proper route plan before you leave. Stuff yourselves with water and food as required.
  • If you don't possess a through data connectivity, set your route in Google Maps before you leave. The google map would act as an offline map with location pointer. This would be handy if you are lost.

Travelers, Story & Photos:
Shynil Hashim
Shahid Mohammed

Gratitude : Fazal & Family

© travel & tales