“I think we got company”, I called out to Mrs J, who quickly threw a loose dress over her swimsuit to cover up.
We had set up our little camp on an empty beach, close enough to hear the surf, but in a safe enough distance so as not to wake up to any surprises caused by the tide. It has a little bit of Heaven. Soft sand, a large dune leaning lazily up against a huge cliff as though it wanted to swallow it, a soft stretch of greenery where camels would visit at dawn to graze. Nobody else around – except for the small white and orange taxi now making its way carefully towards our tents in the soft sand.
Mrs J and I watched a little apprehensively as the car came to a stop next to us. “Don’t worry” Mrs J whispered, “I have my Swiss Army knife”. I looked at her hand clutching the little handbag version of the famous Swiss knife. I wasn’t sure how good a nail file would be in the case of an armed robbery, but perhaps the little toothpick would work.
We hadn’t needed worrying.
Saif waved as he climbed out of his taxi and asked permission to join us. His dishdasha was pristine and an intoxicating smell wafted towards me on the sea breeze. Sandalwood. It was a welcoming change from damp firewood. How did Omani men always manage to stay so clean and smell so good even on a sandy beach in the middle of nowhere?
Mrs J looked at me as we discreetly inched away from Saif on the beach mat. Like myself, she was at this point painfully aware of the distinct aura of salt, seaweed and wood smoke surrounding us. In each other’s company, we had gotten used to it. But yes, we needed a shower.
I unscrewed the top of our little thermos and offered him a cup of tea. As tradition dictated he had to decline our offer several times and we had to insist and more or less force a mug into his hand. This dance took a while, of course, and we almost missed the sunset – the whole reason for the three of us to sit like ducks in a row on the beach mat, overlooking the sea. Eventually, I won, as we all knew I would according to century-old traditions of hospitality.
Saif slurped his tea in small sips. “Ahhh, this is tea from Sulaiman!” he exclaimed surprised. He was right of course. We had stopped in his village, Hadbeen, on the way there and filled up the thermos. Had been, a tiny village by the sea, with only 350 inhabitants according to Saif. Of course, he would know Sulaiman’s tea.
“I’m a travelling man, you know,” Saif said apropos nothing. Mrs J and I both looked at his orange striped taxi in the sand and imagine sandalwood smelling Saif touring the world with the meter running. “I’ve been to Muscat”, he continued “and Dubai”. There was a pause where we kinda expected him to go on to list all the many other places this travelling man had been to. After a while, it was clear that the list ended after Dubai.
“I take tourists in my taxi and show them around, and in return, they tell me about their countries. In my mind, I have now travelled to all these places. I have walked in the snow, I have tasted their food, I have listened to their language. It takes me everywhere”.
“You could always just google these places”, Mrs J suggested. Saif looked puzzled.
“I guess”, he shrugged without much enthusiasm.
And with just a few words she had shattered his illusions, derailed his Dream Express and brought him right back to Hadbeen and his beaten-up taxi. He left us soon after.
“Do you know who said: ’Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world’?” I asked Mrs J.
“Albert Einstein” I continued without waiting for her reply. “I googled it”.
