Presided over by rugged mountains, the gleaming, whitewashed old town of Mutrah is undoubtedly one of Muscat’s most scenic spots. The canopy of roofs is punctuated by the cerulean blue of qubba (mosque domes) and the odd minaret, from where the call to prayer echoes out. And come nightfall it’s a beautiful place for a stroll, the light from the low-rise buildings glimmering on the gently lapping waters of the Gulf of Oman.
The city’s old commercial centre, Mutrah is still a hive of a activity and well worth an afternoon stroll along the curled lip of its corniche – the gulf on one side and delicately latticed buildings on the other. Although it’s part of the capital Muscat there’s a village-like feel to Mutrah, which is best observed by dawn’s first light at the fish market. But there’s plenty more to see besides: from the old Portuguese Mutrah Fort, built in the 1580s, to the green pocket that is Al Riyam Park, and the famed Mutrah Souk.
You could be forgiven for thinking you’re exploring Australia’s Great Ocean Road or cruising California’s west coast when you sink your toes into the sand at Ras al Jinz in Oman. Beautiful rock formations fringe this beach on the east of the Arabian Peninsula, but if the golden cliffs aren’t enough of a drawcard, the endangered green sea turtles that return each year to nest most certainly are.
Protected by the Omani government, the only way to see these grande dames – some of the largest turtles in the world – laying eggs or the little tykes hatching is on a group tour, departing from the Ras al Jinz Turtle Centre each morning and night.
Evening expeditions are conducted by torchlight, so be sure to stick close to your guide to learn all about the turtles’ lifecycle and the predators they face. Be sure arrive early or stick around after to explore the interactive museum that gives details about the eco-tourism project and to visit the research labs on site.
Oman can get hot. Really hot. And while the warmth makes the white-sand beaches all the more enticing, there’s another way to experience sweet relief from the sun; by travelling even closer to it. Head high into Jebel Akhdar, part of the immense Hajar Mountains, 2000-metres above sea level. Here a great canyon splits through rock and the temperatures drop more than 10°C.
At first glance the region’s name, which translates to Green Mountain, may seem a little misplaced. But on closer exploration you’ll uncover valleys of fertile soil with orchids growing pomegranate, walnuts, figs and succulent stone fruit – think juicy apricots, peaches and plums. Terraced hills are scattered with bursts of colour in the form of Damask rose bushes, with their petals destined to be distilled into Omani rose water, and later infuse local sweets and traditional cosmetics.
Ruins of mud-brick houses sit crumbling into the hills at Wadi Bani Habib, and date palms form oasis around them. This is the place to really get in touch with nature, and you’ll spot buzzing insects, vultures and warblers on a hike to the town and through the valley. After a couple of days exploring the mountain oasis of Jebel Akhdar that heat building up inside you will have dissipated, and you’ll be ready to embark back into the warmth of the lower grounds.
When it comes to whimsical castles and forts, Oman offers beauty that could have been lifted straight from the pages of a fairytale. With that in mind, you simply can’t visit without stopping in at Jabrin Castle. Located among the palm-fringed foothills of the Jebel Akhdar highlands, the beautifully preserved 17th-century castle – built by Imam Bil’arab bin Sultan of the Yaruba dynasty – has long been a revered institute for learning. Wander through its central courtyard and dip into one of the hundreds of hidden rooms adorned with intricately painted ceilings among its labyrinth of archways and watchtowers. If you’re up for the challenge, set out to discover Bil’arab bin Sultan’s crypt – an atmospheric final resting place with carved vaults and the gentle bubbling of the falaj (water channel) flowing below.
Can’t get enough? Just five kilometres from here is the striking Bahla Fort. A fortress of astounding proportions, it is not only the oldest (built some 800 years ago by the Banu Nebhan tribe), but also the largest of its kind in Oman. Its stone foundations and surrounding 11 kilometres of fortified unbaked mud-brick walls, and the edifices within it, are thought to be among the finest Omani architecture of the medieval period. However, its disintegration over the years meant it was almost lost to the sands of time, that is until it was inscribed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1987 – the only fort to be awarded such a title in the entire country. In the following two decades the site was restored to its former glory, before finally reopening to the public in 2012.
There’s little in the way of tourist information or exhibit displays, which means you’ll have to do your homework before you arrive, but it also leaves your mind free to wonder and imagine the various histories that took place among Bahla’s twisted alleyways, souqs and within the alcoves of its sand-coloured walls.
Constructed using stone hand-cut from surrounding mountains, Alila Jabal Akhdar blends sophisticated comfort with rugged terrain and Omani tradition. Perched over a gorge at 2000 metres above sea level, this new and sumptuous addition to Oman’s landscape offers sweet relief from the heat of the capital, a two-hour drive away. The aroma of frankincense drifts through the cool air, and afternoon cocktails are swilled on a deck overlooking an infinity pool. Day tours take guests into the heart of the Hajar Mountains to explore lush valleys of pomegranate, walnut and apricot trees, discover mud-brick houses crumbling into the hills, and wander terraced gardens scented with sweet pink roses.
If you live and breathe art you will do both happily at the XVA Hotel in Dubai, an understated boutique property in a city usually associated with excess.
This triple threat – it’s a hotel, vegetarian cafe and one of the best contemporary art galleries in the city – is located in the Al Fahidi historical neighbourhood, with its Persian architecture and snaking alleyways. The 13 guest rooms, arranged around shady courtyards where guests relax sipping mint lemonade, were once part of a home that was painstakingly restored over a four-year period by owner Mona Hauser.
It’s not a great start. I’ve allowed 90 minutes for our convoy of cars to travel from Dubai, on the United Arab Emirates’ west coast, to Dibba, a small port on the opposite coast, just across the border inside the Omani enclave of Musandam. But traffic congestion heading out of town means we arrive at the port almost two hours late.
Our 14-strong group has been looking forward to Al Marsa Musandam’s two-night dhow cruise alongside the rugged peninsula all week, so the delay has tested our patience. By the time we actually board, excitement has given way to relief.
That phase passes the moment we dump our bags in our ensuite cabins. One by one we find our way to the top deck, where banana lounges and deck chairs point towards the bow. Bottles of wine and beer are opened and the sea breeze begins to work its magic. This, we all agree, is closer to how we imagined the weekend to pan out.
The Musandam Peninsula’s heavily indented coastline measures roughly 650 kilometres. Mountain peaks reaching heights of more than 2000 metres plummet into the Persian Gulf on one side and the Gulf of Oman on the other. The two bodies of water meet at the tip of the peninsula, where they squeeze through a slender passage separating this part of Oman from Iran. At its narrowest, this choke point – known as the Strait of Hormuz – is just 34 kilometres wide.
For thousands of years, this strait has formed part of a busy sea trade route connecting the Indian subcontinent to the Middle East and beyond to the Mediterranean. For that reason, the Musandam Peninsula is valued as a strategic commercial and military stronghold. It’s also an area that’s brimming with dramatic scenery. Comparisons have been made with Norway’s fjord system, although the Scandinavian version is certainly greener than the arid country on offer here.
There’s no way we can possibly sail around the entire peninsula in just 48 hours, so I ask Al Marsa’s Ziad Al Sharabi if we can make it as far as Kumzar, the isolated fishing village at the tip of the peninsula.
“We can’t get there. It’s too far and the currents are too strong,” he says. “The people are also very conservative. They don’t really like strangers walking around taking photos.”
Ziad instead maps out an itinerary that will take us north along the east coast for four hours, travelling through moonlit darkness to Sheesa Bay. He promises we will wake inside the sheltered headlands of Ras Qabr Hindi and Ras Khaysa, where we’ll be surrounded by jagged peaks whose twisted and contorted cliff faces will look as though they’ve been torn from the pages of a geology textbook. From Sheesa Bay, we’ll follow the contours of the coast – more slowly this time – back to Dibba. Along the way we’ll anchor in various locations to snorkel, dive or swim.
It’s well after 9pm when we set off from Dibba. Clear skies and calm waters mean there is little risk of seasickness, and the boat’s gentle sway is hypnotically comforting. Many are lulled to sleep, either below deck in their cabins or on the banana lounges up top.
Al Marsa’s dhows always tow tenders behind them for shore excursions and to ferry divers and snorkellers to exotic undersea locations. But when we wake in a cove inside Sheesa Bay the next morning, ours is gone.
Our dive master, Abdul Karim, tells us not to panic. There are only two divers on board our dhow, he says, so another crew has seconded our boat to accommodate the greater number of underwater adventurers on board their vessel.
“A replacement will arrive soon from Dibba,” he tells us, “so we will wait here until then. But this is an excellent place for snorkelling, where the currents aren’t dangerous.”
After 26 years in the Royal Navy of Oman, Abdul Karim knows a thing or two about the reefs in these parts. It’s been just 12 months since he handed in his resignation, so it’s fair to say he’s devoted most of his adult days to being in the water. “I’m like a dolphin,” he says. “If I don’t dive at least once a week, I become agitated.”
And waiting around is no problem. Since it’s our first morning, we’re happy to spend it snorkelling, napping, reading and diving from the top deck into the water. Dolphins swim off the bow and a sea turtle surfaces shortly after.
Captain Dilip signals a crew member to pull up the anchor soon after lunch. He motors north through Sheesa Bay to Red Island, a spectacular and protected mooring inside an extinct caldera.
Each of us jumps in the water, either to snorkel or to explore the island, where a beach covered in shells and broken coral connects two rocky bluffs. Just offshore, hard and soft corals cling to a gently sloping reef heavily populated with spotted starfish. Large schools of mackerel swim past with mouths agape and parrotfish gnaw away at the corals. Angelfish, butterflyfish, surgeonfish and damsels scout around the periphery, and shy groupers peer out through rocky crevices. A sea eagle hovers above.
As the sun sinks beneath the peninsula’s sawtooth ridgeline, Captain Dilip is once again at the bridge, setting a southerly course towards Ras Sakkan. We anchor inside the safe haven of Khor Qabal, wondering why we’d bypassed the bigger Khor Habalayn, the peninsula’s widest and longest inlet. Abdul Karim says it would take us six hours to reach its furthest point. “And it’s no good for snorkelling,” he adds. “There’s too much sand.”
In Khor Qabal, we’re wrapped inside a natural amphitheatre of sharp peaks. As we sit down for dinner, the temperature is ideal and the night sky twinkles and flashes with a million stars. Had the moon not been close to full, they would have been even more spectacular.
We were all too exhausted to savour our evening meal the previous day but this time it’s different. The mood is festive and there’s plenty to laugh about as we swap stories across the dining table. The only time we’re silent is when Abdul Karim outlines the following day’s excursion. Because of our forced layover that morning, the crew has planned a day packed with activity, he tells us.
“We’ll see everything that’s detailed on the itinerary, and more,” Karim says. “And as a treat we’ll take you into Lima village, where you can all have a walk around.”
I rise early, just as the sun begins to warm the peninsula’s spine. Others in the group eventually join me on deck and the late risers trickle up top when Captain Dilip warms up the engine.
Barely a word is muttered as we exit Khor Qabal. Shaded valleys form long dark lines tumbling towards the water from creviced peaks shrouded in mist. Far below, seabirds plunge headfirst towards shoals of leaping fish that splash against the glassy surface like raindrops. It’s an entrancing view.
The two divers in our group, husband and wife Paul and Anna Egan, board the dive boat for the short commute to Octopus Rock and we leave them behind to continue on to Lima Bay. There, when we’re anchored beneath bare cliffs inside a cove, we eat breakfast on the top deck. Before we’ve finished dining, the divers are motoring towards us.
“That was brilliant,” says Paul, as the two of them join us. “The best dive I’ve ever done.”
“The rock you can see above the surface is like an iceberg – only a small part of what’s beneath,” adds Anna. “It broadens below the surface, getting thicker deeper down. And bits have broken off it, leaving behind some big gullies and terraces where heaps of fish hide.”
After our morning meal, we all squeeze into the dive boat to rush towards terra firma. Like Kumzar and a handful of other villages sprinkled along this peninsula, Lima is accessible only by sea. With 4000 inhabitants, it is the largest and boasts the type of facilities found in highway towns. There’s a hospital, school and police station – it even has sealed roads so that the school bus can collect students from farming communities located further inland, in dry valleys known locally as wadis.
From our boat, date palm plantations resemble mini oases against the town’s craggy backdrop. Fishermen with heavily lined faces repair nets on the volcanic black-sand beach and goats appear to have the run of the town – they’re scattered by roadsides, against walls and even perched up trees.
Abdul Karim arranges a brief tour on the school bus of the wadi. We stop to collect a hitchhiking desalination plant worker, and again to ogle a venomous snake slain by a villager with whom it had the misfortune of crossing paths. We then head back to the port to reboard our dhow.
The sun feels hotter away from the water and we’re keen to cool off when we return. While the divers make a beeline for Lima Rock, the rest of us don masks and snorkels to swim alongside the narrow isthmus of Ras Lima. The highlight this time is seeing a good-sized eagle ray resting on a sandy patch of seabed.
The two divers are again wide-eyed when they catch up with us and they scroll through photographs of electric rays, moray eels and lionfish near the surface, and of reef sharks deeper down.
“That dive was frightening,” confesses Anna. “The current pulled us along – it was pointless trying to fight it. We saw a turtle and tried to follow it, but the current just dragged us away.”
We sail around Ras Lima towards Ras Kaha’af. The richly coloured turquoise water between the two headlands signals a sandy seabed, but the darker shades around the fringes hint at a reef. It looks like another promising spot for snorkelling until Abdul Karim suggests we accompany him in the tender to a sea cave around the corner. He navigates through a gaping hole encrusted with barnacles and we slide into the water.
Pufferfish drift in the currents and batfish and jackfish shoal together in the shadows. Sea snails with fluorescent body markings cling to the rocks. The biggest creatures, however, are those below us – the divers, whose air bubbles leave a trail behind them as they disappear beneath a deep rock ledge.
As we sail back to Dibba – and the thought of once again having to deal with the traffic on the road back to Dubai – we begin to reminisce about our days on board the dhow. The divers and snorkellers each rave about their experiences and everyone feels significantly more at ease than when they first boarded.
Without exception we agree on one thing, and that is that two nights was not enough. A week would have been better.
Sadly, many of the countries surrounding it are completely off limits for travellers these days, but anyone interested in the ancient world or a more modern Middle East can still explore Jordan.
No doubt, most visitors head straight for Petra, the incredible pink city built by the Nabataeans in about 300BC and undiscovered by explorers from the western world until 1812. For ancient history buffs, however, there are plenty of other impressive architectural sites, including the Umm Al-Jimal Ruins near the Syrian border, with about 150 buildings still visible, and the 2000-year-old Greco-Roman city of Jerash. Even the capital Amman boasts Roman ruins among its mosques, malls and cafes.
Go 4WDing to Wadi Rum, an amazing red landscape of rock formations and riverbeds, before sleeping under the stars at one of the camps. There’s hiking to be done at the Wadi Mujiz canyon, and reefs to be explored at Aqaba on the Red Sea, Jordan’s only resort town.
Flames flare across a pit of boiling mud in the heart of Turkmenistan’s Karakum Desert. Derweze, or the ‘door to hell’ as locals know it, is a glowing 70-metre-wide sinkhole and a sinister legacy to gas mining.
The crater formed when the ground beneath a rig collapsed as Soviet geologists drilled for resources in one of the largest natural gas reserves in the world. The pit devoured the machinery and methane gushed into the air, threatening a nearby village. To truncate the flow, geologists set the deposit alight, assuming it would burn off in several days. Fed by rich natural gas, the fire continues to burn decades later.
The roiling Rub’ al-Khali desert stretches into the distant heat haze like an animated orange sea. It climbs and dives – all Arabesque curves and belly dancer sways – as impulsive and changing as the elements that shape it. Translated as the Empty Quarter, the Rub’ al-Khali is the largest sand desert in the world. Its sculpted dunes and arid plains gobble up the Arabian Peninsula and form a nebulous border between Saudi Arabia, Oman, the United Arab Emirates and Yemen.
If happenstance finds you wandering the Rub’ al-Khali in the midday sun do this: first sack your travel agent, then wee on your shirt, wrap it tightly around your head and stagger ever westwards with steely determination. If the Bear Grylls Desert Cleanse doesn’t appeal, best to ride out the heat of the day in an opulent oasis like the Qasr Al Sarab Resort, nestled in the dunes two hours from Abu Dhabi. The resort will have you experiencing the best of the desert action without risking life and limb. Well, almost…
Dawn and dusk are the only times to appreciate the Rub’ al-Khali up close. And so we rise in the half-light and assemble bleary-eyed in the resort library. We’re assigned drivers and vehicles and charge off down a road that quickly becomes a track and then a sand-flat. Soon we’re travelling fast and rolling with the undulations of the dunes, clinging on for dear life in the back of a 4WD. Sheets of orange sand spray over the vehicle like rusty snow as we’re expertly guided over a yawning precipice. We lean sideways into a controlled drift – engine roaring, hearts pumping – and charge down its vertiginous decline. It’s still early but I am very much awake.
Dune bashing captures the flipside of the UAE experience. It is modern, fast-paced and flirts with western decadence. Among many other things, Abu Dhabi is famous for Formula One and for having the fastest rollercoaster in the world. Our Pakistani driver seems a fan of both as he floors it through the dunes.
An action-packed hour later we stop on a ridge for tea and dates as the sun peeks over the horizon in nearby Saudi Arabia. My bearings, rarely in mint condition, have abandoned me. I hazard a guess that we must be close to nowhere. “Welcome to the Empty Quarter. And now you walk back,” jokes our guide.
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