Jag vaknar vid soluppgången, och de anställda vid slottet släpper in mig innan de officiella öppettiderna. I Oman finns ett dussintal slott och fort – oftast mer men ibland mindre renoverade. Dom är gratis eller annars riktigt biliga att besöka. Där jag är just nu finns även toalett och dusch samt ett litet tak utomhus under vilket jag kunnat sova – helt perfekt. På morgonen går jag runt i slottet – en härligt förvirrande blandning av slingriga gångar, asymmetriska rum, källare och vindsförråd.

Sen sätter jag mig på cykelsadeln igen – byn Al Hamra ligger inte långt bort – tre- och fyravåningshus i lera och en härligt avslappnad bymiljö gör till en trevlig förmiddagspaus. Sedan dagens avstickare till landets högsta berg, Jabal Shams på ca 3 000 meter. Lutningen på vägen, som slingrar sig upp längs berget, är så brant att jag delvis måste skjuta på cykeln gåendes. Jag inser att jag inte kommer att hinna upp innan det blir mörkt ute och passande nog erbjuds jag skjuts av en lokalbo med pickup.
Said – döv, men inte dum, som hans mor direkt betonar när vi stannar för te hemma hos föräldrarna på vägen upp – skär kurvorna så snävt som bara någon som växt upp på platsen kan göra. Hotellen vid toppen har tyvärr turistpriser – som tur är blir jag inbjuden av en av de hotellanställda: “Cykla upp till utsiktspunkten och vänta där tills det blir mörkt. Då åker chefen ner till stan, och du kan komma tillbaka hit och bo gratis” berättar han. Jag trampar upp till utsiktspunkten och äter några mackor; ser solen gå ner över Wadi Ghul eller “Arabiens Grand Canyon”, som guiderna också kallar den, och känner den isande kylan komma i skymningen. I mörkret ser jag hotellchefens bil köra iväg – ljuskäglorna som slingrar sig ner längs vägen – och jag skyndar mig tillbaka till hotellet där min nya vän väntar.

Jag får dela rum med honom. Han är hitflyttad syrier och driftsansvarig på hotellet; bor i samma rum gör även hotellets kock från Bangladesh. Han är en av många Sydasiater som migrerat till Oman för att arbeta med allt det som araberna är för rika för att göra – det vill säga nästan allt. Jag bjuds på en underbar syrisk måltid, och därefter en insyn i något som egentligen såklart inte existerar här.

De enda betalande gästerna på hotellet är ett äldre brittiskt par, och när dom gått och lagt sig kommer deras omanska guide in på vårt rum för att byta porrfilmer med min syriska vän. Det är filmer i mobilkvalitet från regionen – från Bahrain kommer dom bästa, säger min vän, men dom från Turkiet är också bra. Mest är det tonårstjejer som ensamma visar upp sina mer eller mindre nakna kroppar – kanske omedvetna om att det är fler än han som filmat som ska komma att se på; kanske inspelat av dom själva i ett desperat försök att få bli sedda. Kocken från Bangladesh tittar bort – efter bara tre månader i landet är han kanske rädd för att se något som såklart egentligen inte finns här.

I pack up and leave my camping spot beside the petrol station at sun rise, and reach main-town Nizwa in time for the local fort to open. Oman is dotted with these forts – many of them recently restored to its original splendor using the same traditional construction methods with which they were first built. Most of them seem to date from the 16th, 17th and18th centuries and were built by various Sultans, although sometimes on foundations much older than that. This one in Nizwa also hosts a great exhibition with explanatory movies and texts regarding not only the fort but also date palms, dressing, religion and falaj (irrigation systems), to name a few themes.

I continue my fort-tour – past the closed (for renovation) yet from the outside still impressive UNESCO World Heritage fort of Bahla – to the castle of Jabrin. The latter has already closed for the day, but there are great shelters to camp under, and the adjacent toilets and showers are free to use. The surrounding date palm plantations – I notice at dusk – attract a lot of mosquitoes though, so I still have to pitch my tent.

Continue past Adam to Firq, where I camp nearby a petrol station. I’ve finally left the desert behind me – the mountains ahead of me are a welcomed sight after over a week with a flat horizon all around.

The fact that there are so many Indians and Pakistanis here is evidenced by the only English daily newspaper I’ve bought so far. The two nationalities have their own sections.

Reach today’s only roadside settlement by 2 pm. A few sand dunes – as beautiful as ever – and quite some oil wells visible at a distance made today’s stretch a bit less boring than the past ones. With imagination – there is a lot of time to think around here – I could see the ocean of dunes that stretch from here all the way to mid-Saudi Arabia. A desert area known as the Empty Quarter, which occupies most of eastern Saudi. Absolutely amazing.

I break for lunch in one of the two restaurants. Beef curry with biryani rice. Juice (small paper packages with attached straw) and instant coffee in disposable paper mug. Through the window I see the wind gain force – sandblasting my bike outside; making it sway for the gusts. The restaurant’s TV must be from before the dish that feeds it was even invented. I doubt that it is color.

I eventually get going again with the sun setting behind me, and camp by the roadside after a few hours of night-cycling.

Repeating Martin Luther King’s quote – ‘Only when it is dark enough, can you see the stars’ – gives it a new meaning when cycling the Omani desert at night. The oil rigs – lit up by burning gas flares – emerge more clearly than ever.

The roadside restaurant I reach after another day through the empty desert, lies a few hundred meters away from the road. Between them eight or so trucks, parked randomly on the flat gravel land. I meet two drivers from Punjab (India). Others are from Islamabad (Pakistan) and Dongola (Sudan). They ask me which countries have been good; which ones bad. Turkey, Sudan, Ethiopia and Yemen favorites so far. In Egypt, you need to keep an extra eye on your stuff, I say. ‘Aha – Ali Baba’, they reply. The name is still used in much of the Arab world as a synonym for thieves or dishonest people.

Sleep outside an the front porch, below a phone booth. Owner turns out to be quite friendly – gives me a few bananas (a luxury out here, like everything else that has to be brought fresh form elsewhere) and let me watch some Al Jazeera International before I go sleep.

Sleep at small roadside park with the essential conveniences of both a mosque and a toilet, ten or so kilometers after Hayma. Hotels in the latter – as well as in general in Oman – is too expensive at about 30 euro.

Al Ghaftuyn is the square opposite of the restaurant 20 kilometers before Qatbit. Clean and ordered, and with an attached guesthouse, it doesn’t invite for road sleep, really. With 100 kilometers to the next place, and time already 15, I’m stuck here until next morning though, and the owner eventually gives me permission to sleep outside on the parking lot.

Muqshin – en spökstad, åtminstone om man anländer vid 15-tiden – är den enda byn utmed den 400+ kilometer långa vägen mellan Thumrait och Hayma (övriga byar ligger ofta 50 kilometer eller längre bort från vägen). Muqshin är dock ingen vanlig by – förutom två udda beduintält består den av nybyggda betongkomplex – ett kvarter med boendehus arrangerade runt en grusplan med ytterligare ett par byggnader huserandes en kiosk (Food stuff and Luxuries) och en restaurang. Allt stängt, så jag beger mig till del två, där skola, några administrativa byggnader och ytterligare några affärer reser sig ur sanden. Skräddaren öppnar restaurangen – tar paus i tittandet av Formel 1 och kamelracing – och värmer ett par chapatti med kryddig grönsaksröra åt mig. 10 kronor. Sova får jag på golvet i frisersalongen mittemot – perfekt!

Sleep outside Adwab Maqshan Restaurant twenty kilometers before Qatbit. Great food, great Pakistani people (both the owners and the by-passing truck drivers).

Everything is in dire need of cleaning, but that’s one thing I don’t blame them for giving up when living in the middle of the desert; probably seeing a woman pass by once a month at best. Instead, the workers and the truck drivers – all form Pakistan – watch Indian TV, received with the all so important satellite dishes, lined up on the yard outside. First a talent show – one man shows how he can pull electric wires through his nose and mouth, with which he then lights a bulb. Then commercial for some coming gala style event: ‘Challenge for terrorism’. By that time the drivers have all gone back to their chapati with mutton and lentils stew. I go to sleep on a spare metal bed that stands outside on the sandy yard.

Hosted by Pakistani mechanic at Hantip – a village consisting of nothing more than a petrol pump and a restaurant. One worker from India tells me that they work in cycles of 2 years work; 6 months vacation back home in Kerala.

The question for Oman is not what they’ll do for a living when the oil reserves dry up – but rather who’ll cook their food and run their shops and restaurants, when the Indians and Pakistanis find places that pay better, or get decent pay back home.

The road from Salalah climbs the mountains to the North only to descend into the desert after some forty sweaty kilometers. 800 kilometers of gravel and sand desert lies ahead of me, punctuated only by the occasional roadside restaurants and/or petrol station every 50 to 150 kilometer. (much like in Western Sahara).

Stay the night with a Pakistani mechanic. His room – a plywood shell attached to other’s homes and structures around a scrap yard – contains a few floor mattresses and a TV with a VCD-player. Watch Hindi movies until we fall asleep.

I reach Salalah, greeted by host Per – friend of friend Pascal in Damascus. After dinner at an expats pub in the harbor, we drive back home to watch the inauguration of Obama. Through the Internet, we could only access BBC Radio – live video streams were as expected impossibly slow. Although without picture, we watched that radio player on the computer screen like I imagine people watched it in old times when something big was happening. As if you’d hear better, if you’d watch closely.

Tomorrow is off again. As Per goes for vacation in Australia, I continue towards Muscat and Dubai. 1,000 kilometers through the desert, or 1,500 along the more interesting coast – I’ll see what I can manage on the short 30-day visa I’ve been granted.

The names of shops says something about fashion here. ”Salalah automatic bakery” – in Sweden, ”baked by hand” would be much more attractive. Convenience stores usually have the peculiar title ”Food items and goods of luxury” – I’m not sure what the latter refers to, but for me it’d be the chocolate.

I’d heard beforehand that the road to Salalah would be hilly – but gosh it was steep! Not engineered for bicycles for sure – not even dated trucks would manage it. And the view of the ocean – visible even from the highest passes at 1,000 meters – was swindling. Climate was perfect though, with clouds closing in from Saudi – and the Omani people are just wonderful.
Sleep with some Bengali fishermen in Mughsayl. Kumenaso? Baloasi, donovad!*
*How are you? Fine, thank you!

Information on Visa to Oman
Visa, by the way, I got at the border for 6 Omani Riyal (about 12 euro). For those planning the same route: be sure to exchange your Yemeni cash before you cross the border, since the Omanis don’t want them. ‘They fluctuate too much (i.e. downwards)’, said one border official.

Jadib is by the border with Oman, or rather just below the high hilltop on which the border is located. A beautiful stretch of beaches line the road as the village stretches alongside it below the Qamar Mountains.

Police escort again – this time two day’s cycling past beautiful scenery and wild, desolate beaches. I’d love to return to Yemen with a few friends one day, cycling from beach to beach, camping out.