I woke up that day and went to work per normal. I was sure to take a short nap after Dhur (noon prayer), which has also become normal during Ramadan, because I knew I had a long drive ahead that afternoon. I started on the road at 4:40pm already a bit late to make the 6:30 adhan (call to prayer). As I departed the city following the signs to Quriyat, I noticed the mountains getting closer. I took a deep breath, whispered "bismiallah" (in the name of God) and pressed the gas pedal to the ground praying my little peugot was up for the trip. After a long stretch of highway I found myself etching up and around the mountains feeling my way along the curves of the road. Those who made this trip daily zoomed passed me on what was by now a familiar path. The sky turned a warm tangerine color and in the nick of time I arrived in Quriyat. Quriyat is a fishing town along the coast of Oman. It lays in a valley between the mountains and the sea. I met my host in town. He brought his sister, who rode in the car with me as we followed him bumping along the now dirt roads until we reached their home. On the way she described where the road used to be, pointed out where farms and houses stood before the recent cyclone Phet collapsed and flooded the valley. She told stories of her neighbors having to be evacuated to the mountains to escape the flood, where there are temporary houses for them. Several months had passed and there was still much reconstruction needed. I arrived and was ushered into the majalis (sitting area).
My host's sister and sister-in-law brought out a full tray and set in front of me and the 2 of them sat across. "Allahu Akbar" the adhan began echo off the mountains. "Bismillah" we each began with a date. The iftar meal had the staples, dates of course (which is always the first food item used to break fast), leban (a salty yogurt drink), sombosa, fruit, some other fried treats including my favorite of all, lukaymat (fried dough balls crunch on the outside soft in the middle and soaked in sugar water). We ate and talked a bit. As a guest, I was of course encouraged to eat more and try everything. But I know that dinner would follow shortly so I made sure to leave room.
Twenty minutes of iftar then we all broke off into different rooms for Maghrib prayer. The women (as it is only women who sit with other women) came back cleared the food then left again to prepare the next meal (I assumed). The matriarch of the house came to greet me along with several other female members of the family including my host's wife and daughter. We struggled to communicate, my trying to make out their accent and them trying to decipher my far too formal and completely broken standard Arabic. The younger women (in the early twenties), who had been taught both standard Arabic and some English in school, acted as the translator for me and the older women in the room. Then came another meal, a little more than an hour after the first.
Dinner was rice, chicken and salad which we all at from a large shared tray with the rice stacked high and the roasted chicken perched on top. I carved out my section of the tray with my right hand and dug in. I knew I was being honored as I ate from the first try that was brought out. I shared with my host's mother, the 1st wife of the house, her sister, the wife of her eldest son and her small children. The second tray that came out was shared by the second wife of my host's father, his sisters and his wife. The third was for the other young girls in the house and a few neighbors who had also stopped in. I was told to eat more, and did, until I reached my limit, leaned back on the cushions and with a smile and polite hand wave, I said "khalas....shabana Alhumdulilah" --- "finished....I'm satisfied praise God." My hosts mom nodded in acknowledgement, then told her daughter to bring dessert.
Time for Isha (night prayer) and the room that was bustling with a dozen women emptied once again. They went back to their homes and rooms for prayer. I prayed in the majalis amidst children who continued to play, and made a special supplication of thanks to God for providing such a generous family to welcome me. After prayer the older women came back. My hosts' aunt insisted I visit her house but I didn't know that until the younger women came to translate into standard Arabic. I of course accepted and we all got up and crossed the dirt road to her house. I sat with her mother (my host's grandmother) who was blind and very hard of hearing but no less present. I was unable to decipher her soft words and without my translators present I didn't understand when they were repeated to me by the other women in the room. What I did understand, was their explanation of who I was. An American Muslim, working in Muscat with her grandson, teaching other Americans Arabic and about Oman. She approved.
Even for our short 25 minute visit, Omani hospitality would not have you leave without eating and drinking something. So a tray of fruit and juice was brought and I did my best to sip and swallow one or two pieces. As we headed back across the street we realized the hour. The women insisted I stay the night and not risk the hour and half trip back to Muscat. "There are no lights on the mountains, it is not safe and you will be scared," one of the neighbors said. She was right. I agreed with her and we collectively decided that I would sleep there and leave after fajr (morning prayer) to make it back to the city into for work. With more time on my hands I was able to visit more people. I was ushered to another house right behind the one I was in. The young girls were there so we were able to have a nice long conversation about clothes, marriage, and who is who in the family tree. I was asked about Muslims in America, how I liked Quriyat compared to Muscat and how I'm fairing living here all by myself. I asked about familial relationships, the clothing they wore (as there were 4 women wearing the same exact dress), and the unique things about Quriyat. I was invited to try on a traditional Omani dress and pant, and to have someone paint henna on my hands and feet. Instead I accepted a glass of vimto and chose to make it an early night.
My host's mother arranged for me to have a mattress and blanket brought into the majalis. She thought I'd be more comfortable in my own room, undisturbed. Someone would wake me for sahoor (meal before you begin the fast), then again for Fajr, and I should keep the door shut, so that the children don't come in and disturb me. I should drink water (there was a bottle and glass on the side table) and get some rest so that I wouldn't drive sleepy. I followed all of her instructions and laid down round about 11:30. 15 minutes later, she sent her daughter to check if I was comfortable, then 15 minutes after that she came in herself. I promised that I couldn't be more comfortable if I were at home which seemed satisfying for her. By 12, I was asleep.
3 am and time for sahoor. I had barely digested dinner, not to mention the fruit the followed and it was time for 'porage' (rice soaked in leban), and fruit. I couldn't even pretend to eat at the point. My host's wife was there with his sister and both their children. She seemed disappointed that I didn't eat then, then I noticed that she didn't eat either save for one handful of rice. We all sat in relative silence, still groggy. A full five minutes passed without anyone touching the rice which was signaled that was enough. 3:25 and we were all back in bed.
4:30am time for Fajr. I got up to pray and someone peaked in to make sure I didn't over sleep. After prayer I sat and waited for somone to come in so that I may give my thanks before I headed off. At 5:30 my host's wife came in. It became obvious quickly that she got up only to send me off politely which I hadn't realized before I suggested leaving after Fajr. I tried to compensate by leaving quickly and without much fuss. I thanked her again and again, then began my journey. At the time of morning, even the sky was yawning and the sun was muted by its inhale. I drove in a calm silence. Life seemed to get louder and louder the closer I got to the city. My daily to do list formed in my head, the road got more crowded, and the silence was overtaken with white noise. That night in Quriyat however filling and bustling, was the perfect respite and one of the most memorable moments of my first Ramadan in Oman.
No comments:
Post a Comment