Ruwi Taxi, 2
My Taxi Rides April 20th, 2007
I wind my way back to my seat, past a pyramid of pastries dusted with powdered sugar and chocolate. On my table, a tall slender glass of watermelon garnished with mint waits, puckered with drops of condensation. A small chrome tray of preserves in baby food sized glass jars has been added to my spread. As I seat myself, a young gentleman in a green suit jacket with a white napkin folded across his wrist appears at my elbow. “Pardon me, madame,” he says, in lightly accented English. He, like all the other staff here, sounds Indian. “Would you care for coffee or tea?”
I ask for coffee. “Thank you,” he says, and strides lightly to the kitchen. I place my napkin in my lap, and whisper a prayer. The Saudi couple has taken a table near me. The woman is wearing a chador and niqab with black gloves. She sits with her back to me. Her husband lifts their daughter out of her stroller, and places her softly in the seat next to her mother.
The little girl turns around to look at me. She is wearing a white and pink jumpsuit with cute pink sneakers. Her hair is a froth of black curls, divided into two loose pigtails. She has round black eyes and a small red mouth. I would guess her to be two or three; her mother tickles her chest, and she giggles, turning.
The woman’s husband has one of the most exquisitely beautiful faces I have ever seen. His features are finely boned and symmetrical, and his skin glows like agate. His ghoutra flows over his shoulders with a grace that only the mostly delicately woven cotton can muster. He sits across from his wife, and sets about cutting a small cake into pieces.
The woman lifts up the veil of her niqab just enough to allow her to carry a small fork to her mouth. She chews delicately, eating ful. When her husband has finished cutting the cake, he hands the plate to her. She spears a piece of it with her fork, and feeds it to her daughter before taking one herself. The little girl eats with gusto, reaching out for pieces of pineapple, cake, and cheese. The family continues their circle of feeding one another, and I turn my attention back to my own meal.
As I slice feta and melon, I wonder if I am guilty of a sort of orientalism in my interest in the Saudis. Do I find them beautiful because they remind me of 1001 Arabian Nights? I have never seen a Saudi family eat before. I wonder if they’ve ever seen an American woman in the flesh, and I wonder if they can identify me as such. I am wearing very conservative Islamic clothing; certainly, I do not look like most American women. Then again, I have no idea how I look to them.
The waiter returns with coffee, bearing a porcelain service tray. He sets a tiny coffee pot, a tureen of cream, and a dish of white and brown sugar cubes on the table. “Thank you,” I tell him. “Thank you, madame,” he tells me, before drifting back into fold of curtains and tables behind me.
Pure yellow sunlight shines on the patio as I pour myself a coffee. I enjoy my breakfast slowly, wondering if it would be rude to bring a book to the table with me next time. I will myself to remember everything about table manners that I have ever been taught. I hold my utensils carefully, and I cut precisely sized pieces of everything. When I’m not using my knife, I rest my left hand upon the napkin on my lap.
Finally, I finish my meal. The gentleman who seated me approaches my table, carrying a notebook. “Would you like anything else, madame?” he asks, softly. When I decline, he nods. “May I have your last name, madame?” he asks. Then, when I look confused, “Your breakfast is included with your stay.”
I give him my last name and room number, and he places a check in his ledger. I gather up things; on this occasion, I have a small black purse, in which I’ve stuffed a small bottle of water and a map. It is time to go outside. At the table where the Saudis are sitting, they seem to have the same idea. The woman sips ice water under her veil, as her husband walks around the table to pick up their little girl.
I wink at the child, and she bobs her head and flexes her fingers at me. I want to blow her a kiss, but I do not know if this would offend her parents. Instead I nod to her, and smile. Her father settles her back in her stroller, buckles a strap around her middle. The girl’s mother folds a napkin and places it on the table. As she rises from her seat, she turns her head past me, briefly. Her eyes fill the space between her veils with mirth. She walks to the stroller, and carefully pulls it away from the table. She follows her husband out of the restaurant, and I wonder where they are going.
As luck would have it, I forgot to pack both sunglasses and sunscreen. I stand and straighten my long black coat. It is deathly hot outside, and I wonder how long I will need to walk around. I resolve to experiment with crossing streets on foot, before committing myself to anything else.
I walk out of the front doors of the hotel to a round of nods and salams from the men guarding the entrance. They, unlike the restaurant workers, are dressed in traditional Omani fashion, with pale thobes and embroidered hats. I return their greetings, and try to keep my head up as I pass into the outside air.
I find myself standing on an embankment over a landscaped fountain set with large plaster falcons. I take a moment to breathe in the Middle East. The air is impossibly heavy and hot; it smells like scorched paper. Muscat is one of the hottest cities in the world, and August is one of the hottest months in Muscat. Perhaps if I had given a thought to seasonal appropriateness, I would have not come here. It’s a good thing that I am unencumbered by such planning skills. Trying to breathe calmly, I walk down the path to the street. My heart pounds in my chest, and I cannot help panting for air. I will myself to accept the heat, to try to notice other things.
I find myself standing at the junction of a T intersection. I watch the traffic. It flows in tight fast knots of vehicles, speeding along bumper to bumper. The cars are all very clean; it is a ticketable offense to drive a dirty car here. The lights change and I push the walk button, hoping that it works.
Traffic screeches to a halt before me, and I dart across the street, across the bar of the T, down Bayat al Falaj. A few cars honk as they pass by, but no one yells.
After perhaps a minute of walking head down, watching the sidewalk ahead of me, I look up to find that I standing in the courtyard of the clock tower which I spied from my window. For several minutes I circle the tower, taking in the intricacies of its murals and shapes. A few men sleep in the grass at the edge of a broad, tiled plaza. Another sleeps on a bench right at the base of the tower. I wonder if they are aware of me.
Money. I have to get money, if I am going to do much more than look at the clock tower. I continue down the street, and find myself at a dried out riverbed, hundreds of meters wide, lined with smooth yellow earth and white rocks. A flock of several hundred birds alights; they are shaped like doves, and every color of smoke is painted in their plumage.
A few scrubby trees line the wadi, and at the base of one of these, a father and his son stand with a bag of breadcrumbs between them. The father wears the Omani national uniform, with a white thobe and a grey hat; his son wears a pale lavender thobe, a miniature version of his father’s, and a white, gold embroidered hat. As I watch, the son casts a handful of breadcrumbs over the broad river rocks before him.
The birds rush upward together in a wave, then separate into individual wings and tails as they dive for the crumbs. I stand at the edge of the wadi and listen. I am not yet eager to cross the wadi; I want to explore the area to my right, first; if I have read my map correctly, there should be a few banks in that direction.
A series of street crossings which leave me weak in the knees follow. The drivers here are possessed of a reckless need for speed which manifests in terrifying tailgating the likes of which I have never seen. At last, I find myself at the head of a broad street, lined with embassies and federal buildings. A few blocks ahead, on the left, I see a bank.
The doors of the buildings that I pass are impossibly heavy, anywhere from three to five meters tall, made of intricately cast metalwork. I wonder how they are opened; at present, they are all closed. Suddenly, with a sickening sharpness, I can feel my pulse in my head. I wonder briefly if I am in danger of passing out.
I should have known it was too hot for this. I am chagrined. Will I ever make it to an ATM? Even if I do, will it take my card? Will I be able to take out money from the proper account? For a moment, I have a horrible memory of being in Denmark and realizing that I could only access my checking account (when, at that time, I kept all of my money in my savings account.) A voice in my heart tells me to drink some of my water. I am only half a block from the awning of the bank, so I press on.
When I reach its entrance, I see that there is a covered alcove built to the side of the door, housing an ATM. I slip through its jade stone walls, and find myself facing a heavy brass and glass door. It slides open, and reveals a gleaming display and keyboard, complete with air conditioning. With a minimum of trouble, I withdraw 75 rials, which is roughly $200. Oh, dear. This is going to be an expensive trip, I can feel a voice inside me saying.
While inside the ATM, I take a moment to drink a few sips of water. I run my finger along my jawline, letting the cool air hit my face beneath the skullcap and hijab. Sweat stings my eyes, and I can feel the blood in my head. I hope they don’t have a security camera in this ATM, I think to myself, as I take another swallow of water. Finally, content that my wallet, bottle and map are all safely fastened into my purse, I hit the street again.
I decide to walk back in the direction of the wadi, but I haven’t been on the street for two minutes before a white and orange taxi pulls up alongside me. The driver opens the passenger door for me, and indicates with a wave that I should get in. I breathe deeply, and trust in God. I climb into the car.
The driver is a young, handsome Omani man. He has a beard, an embroidered hat, and a white thobe. A single loop of rose scented wooden beads hang around the rear view mirror. The car is small, Japanese, and low. I buckle my seat belt.
“As-salaamu alaikum. Adhab illa Hadeeqa ar-Ruwi, min Fadlak?” I ask. That may not be entirely correct, but I hope that it conveys my intent to go to the famous Ruwi park. The driver smiles at me. “Wa alaikum as-salaam,” he says. “Of course I will drive you to the park. But first, you must let me show you my city.”
I think of protesting, but the mountains are zipping by on both sides of us, and the inside of the car is nice and cool. He turns off the meter, and away we go.
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