At last, after five days of waiting in Djibouti City, there was a boat to Yemen. A small wooden one, loaded with sesame seeds, two Japanese travelers, a few Djiboutians and Somalians and a bunch of Yemeni crew. A drunken Ethiopian joined in too, loudly proclaiming “Fuck the Arabs!” as he stepped on-board, whilst unzipping his jacket to display the three bottles of St George beer that he’d stuffed in its inner pockets. A fourth bottle was already clinched in his hand, half-empty. Like the other passengers, I tried my best to ignore him – better befriend the Yemeni cook, I thought.

The journey across to Aden was less dramatic, although with quite heavy sea. After one night at sea and one in Aden harbor, we were finally let ashore. Yemen though has unfortunately been battered by kidnappings and bombings targeting tourists in recent years, and the threat results in several roads being regularly closed to individual travelers. A travel permit from the police is required for any journey, and in my case it reads police escort (in car) for about 700 kilometers, and only some 400 kilometers permitted to cycle. I leave the well-known sights in the interior of Yemen for a future visit – the fuss of getting permits and escorts doesn’t attract me. But despite the few kilometers cycled; the short time spent, it is precisely that – a return to Yemen once safe – that I leave the country wishing for. Wonderful people, a more or less completely untouched coastline with mile after mile of white sandy beaches, and between them small picturesque fishing villages – what more can you ask for?

As I close in on Oman, mountains rise from the coast, and the border itself is situated halfway up one of the high passes. Visa is easily obtained on the spot for a country that puts a lot of effort in increasing its tourism, although focusing on the wealthier ones rather than backpackers and cyclists. Fortunately, the country is also home to a large number of work immigrants – mainly from India, Pakistan and Bangladesh. They take care of all the hard work – restaurants, constructions, shops etc. – and is in the end paid for with Oman’s oil revenue. For a cyclist, these people are however saviors – providing cheap, tasty food at their restaurants and proving kind brothers who don’t hesitate to invite one for sleep inside. After having passed the mountains between the border and Salalah, I faced 800 kilometers of desert-road along which the working immigrants are often the only residents, with lonely situated restaurants and hotels separated by 50-150 kilometers of gravel, flat desert. For me, after hours of cycling through the desolate, monotonous landscape, they became small oases with their spicy food, water and satellite TV.

A relief size larger though is the arrival to town Nizwa and the mountains of northern Oman, the latter rising up to 3,000 meters with wonderful small villages both in the mountains and next to the many river beds that (this time of the year often dry) wind forth through the valleys. Adjacent to the villages are almost always one or several springs, which water is led using sophisticated canal systems first to collection of drinking water, then past the mosque for washing and last to the village’s green fields. Shadow is given by the many high date palms, which fruit is also the that is offered a guest, together with coffee. Taking a break in a village more or less always ends up in an opportunity to meet the locals and learn about their traditional life.

Many well restored forts and castles also scatter the country, and with them as destinations but the route in-between past the villages at least as interesting, I make up for lost cycling in Yemen by taking numerous detours through Oman. The country ends up becoming an unexpected favorite so far, not the least thanks to the freedom given by a comforting security (leave your bike unlocked outside the supermarket and find it still there an hour later) and the possibility to camp almost everywhere (petrol station, village, football pitch, hot spring, parking lot outside hotel etc.). The Omanis and the guest workers all show a wonderful hospitality and flexibility – great!

The border to the United Arab Emirates (UAE) is as simple to cross as the to Oman – the visa is even free. Two to four lane highways then take me through the 150 kilometers of scenic desert to Dubai by the coast. The town lives up to all that it’s said to be – construction site, playground for architects and engineers, playground for everyone else too and a town literally flooded with working immigrants, mainly from Asia (although 200 nationals are said to be represented all-together). Besides that, it now also hosts the world’s tallest man-made structure – skyscraper Burj Dubai (818 meters/2,684 feet/160 floors).

I will stay here for about ten days to arrange visas for Iran and Uzbekistan and a ticket to the ferry across to Bandar-e-Abbas in southern Iran, as well as to let my bike get a well-deserved service. Next time you’ll hear from me, I’ll hopefully be in northern Iran.

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.

A quickly gaining wind wakes me up at sunrise. Soon, it’s so strong that I can’t cycle – even when I stand still, the wind blows the bike sideways across the road. I stop at village Musainah where a roadside restaurant becomes by home. I fell asleep in the afternoon, and when I wake up a few hours later, the young men who cooked and served had carried my bike inside and swept me in a thick blanket against the evening cold. A pillow had been tucked under my head. The more my eyes closed, the more comfort they brought. Wonderful people!

We sleep some eight people together on foam and weaved mattresses on the floor inside the large one-room restaurant.

The first women – or at least faces of women – that I see, is in men’s cell phones. Lightly dressed from San’a, one the men tells me as the movie zooms in on the woman’s bare breasts. On the street, women are all covered in black unless younger than about six years old.

The fresh fish they serve here is absolutely delicious. Paradoxically, they also sell canned tuna fish from Thailand, which seems mostly popular with the fishermen themselves. I guess they are tired of their own catch, or maybe like most peoples prefer what is rare and exotic?

The chicken served is frozen import from France and Brazil.

After a morning tour of the slightly sulphuric hot springs in town – ‘people come here all the way from Saudi Arabia’ – I get going again. In Rahmid, one resident shows me his yet-to-be-finished house – still just a concrete framework – where I can sleep on the roof-top under the stars. Great!

Continue my way east – finally on the saddle again. It’s a beautiful coast – despite many fine beaches, it is completely unspoiled.

Fishing village Hami is as serene as the ocean next to it. The cafés lining the tight stretch of ground between the road and the beach are all painted in sky blue and white like most of town. They are full of elder men playing cards and domino; drinking sweet tea. Before I finally settle for a bed at the police station, I’m invited to the homes of no less than three locals!

The police man on duty shows me some tricks on his Kalashnikov ‘made in China’ before ‘the Platoon’ screens the small TV and I fall asleep to that hauntingly beautiful ‘Adagio for Strings’.

My Austrian friends will stay another two nights at Bir’Ali, but I’ll continue eastwards. Their driver kindly drives me up to the main road checkpoint, and from there I’m fortunate to get driven all the way to Al Mukhalla in one single escort. 10 kilometers of cycling later, I’ve reached the centre of town and been invited by a local for a paid night’s hotel stay. I’m thankful as I’ve had some stomach troubles lately – a Russian clinic in town finds giardia in my stool and prescribes me a few pills.

Early morning, I’m picked up by the first of several police cars to begin the journey to Al Mukhalla. The past weeks have seen one kidnapping and one terrorist bombing targeting tourists, and many roads are closed to foreigners. The 600 kilometer long journey along the coast takes time as I have to move to a new police vehicle at every checkpoint – but after three of them I’m lucky.

To save money, the Yemeni officials decide to pair me with some other tourists which they’ve heard are on their way just an hour or so behind me. Austrian Dagmar and her nephew Lukas have hired a car with driver/guide, and I can go with them the rest of the way instead of going with the police. They have an armed police man inside their vehicle, instead of a full escort. Even though much faster as I don’t have to off-load and on-load at each checkpoint, I still don’t make it all the way to Al Mukhalla. Dagmar – who has adopted the generosity and hospitality of the Yemeni after three previous visits to the country – kindly invites me for a stay at Qana Tourist Complex, nearby village Bir’Ali some 100-200 kilometers from Al Mukhalla. Now you’d expect a Sheraton from a place with that name, but it was really nothing more and nothing less than a few thatched mud huts with foam mattresses by the beach – thankfully! The water is as clear as it can be; the white sandy beach, too. Sun loungers made of pale gray reed. All materials have faded in color by the strong sun light. Simply beautiful!

Once the customs have searched our luggage thoroughly, and the immigration has taken their due time to stamp our passports, we’re finally let go. The city center is a few kilometers away – I cash-out at an ATM and then visit the police. A travel permit is required to go anywhere in Yemen by road, and mine states that I must have police escort from Aden to Al Mukhalla; that I’m free to pedal from Al Mukhalla to the border of Oman. I camp by a police checkpoint outside town, awaiting tomorrow mornings first escort.