An Arabian empire swept aside by the sands of time

AT first sight, nothing could seem less appropriate than to compare the bustling, high rise city states of southeast Asia, featuring crowds, greenery and concrete with the semi-desert expanses of Oman. The two million inhabitants of this south Arabian sultanate are spread out over 314,000 square kilometres, which probably has no more trees than Singapore's 600 square kilometres. For the tourist from Singapore and Hongkong, the differences are the attraction: the empty spaces, the pastel shades of sand and rock; the grandeur of the mountains; the occasional oasis or fertile valley, with its spring watered dark green clusters of dates or even coconuts. Here the sight, the sound, the taste of water are an excitement in themselves. Here those tired by urban traffic can drive for hundreds of kilometres along well-made highways. Or they take a four-wheel drive vehicle and armed with map and compass, tent and water bottles, head off into the middle of nowhere, along wadis and over escarpments, exploring nothing in particular but enacting the adage that travelling hopefully is more important than arriving. But there are lessons too in the stones. For once upon a time the cities of Oman performed just the roles in international trade that Singapore and Hongkong do today. Here are reminders of the fickleness of history, of trade, of empires, of human wants, of climate and technology. Once trade in frankincense was as important internationally as oil trade is today. This fragrant resin which oozes from a stunted and contorted tree which grows only along southern Oman's wadis, was exported partly by camel caravan and partly by ship from the port of Samhuram, which lies on the Arabian Sea, some 30 kilometres east of Salalah, modern capital of southern Oman's Dhofar region. Today, Samhuram, once a proud possession of the Queen of Sheba, is a vast heap of stones inhabited only by the occasional goat. It sits lonely on a hillside looking down on the inlet where ancient ships docked and loaded - an inlet now silted up, a haven for all kinds of birds, but no humans. Quite why Samhuram died no one seems to know. Perhaps the camels were quicker. Or enemies sacked it. Or the fashion for frankincense faded. Or the climate got drier. The answer may not be important. But to sit atop the stones of Samhuram, look out across the inlet towards India or Africa, feel the heat, hear nothing but the buzz of insects: it is a good place to contemplate the transience of history. A little less tranquil is the view from atop the fort at Sohar, on the northern coast of Oman, out across to Iran and the sea-lane through which tankers pass to the straits of Hormuz and the entrance to The Gulf (Arabian or Iranian according to your viewpoint or nationality). Sohar is a pleasant enough little town, made green by ancient springs and wells and modernised courtesy of Oman's oil wealth. But is this really the city which 4,000 years ago exported copper to Sumer - ancient empire of southern Iraq? Is this the city described by an Arab writer in the 10th Century as: ''The hallway to China, the storehouse of the East and Iraq''? Sohar had been an important port in Roman times but reached its zenith in the 10th century, when it was the largest port in the Islamic world, its merchants trading with southern China, India, East Africa and Madagascar as well as immediate neighbours. It was still thriving in the 17th century when the English East India Company was allowed to set up facilities there, including - precursor of the China coast treaty ports - the right of extraterratorial jurisdiction. This was the same East India Co which went on to rule most of India and on whose behalf Stamford Raffles established modern Singapore. Today, Sohar has just a long, grey sand beach. The nearest that it gets to being a port are a few small open fishing boats pulled up on the beach, miserable craft incapable of venturing offshore and powered not by the sails of Sindabad but by 10 HP Yamaha outboards. Muscat itself is an example of even more recent transience. It still boasts forts built by the Portuguese when they occupied it in the 16th century and used Omani pilots to help them in building their trading empire further east - Goa, Malacca, Ambon andTimor. The forts guard the palace of a Sultan who till less than 150 years ago ruled a trading empire which included Mombasa and Zanzibar - to whom Omanis introduced clove cultivation from Sulawesi. Omani trade and empire was destroyed not by the design of bigger empires but by technology - the steamships which Muscat merchants could not afford but which took over the trade to India, and the Suez canal which reduced the benefits of Oman's geographical position. There are other lessons too in Oman. Despite the periodic international renown of its ports, its history is as much about the tensions between the coastal cities and the interior. Its most impressive surviving man-made constructions are the fortified towns of the interior valleys, names such as Bahla, Nizwa, Jibrin and Birkat el Moz (literally, ''banana place''). For century upon century spring-fed irrigation systems provided a prosperous and easy living for a small and static population who were protected in one direction by the desert and by mountains and distance from the coastal towns or seaborne predators. Put another way, the outward looking coastal people, adaptable and undogmatic could get richer quicker when times were favourable for their kind of trade. The interior was slow to change, suspicious of foreign views, but hard to conquer or impoverish. In sum, Oman is an ancient, varied and dignified land replete with the lessons of history and where citizens of other states - particularly the recently upwardly - may appreciate the wisdom of John Donne's words: ''For never send to know for whom the bell tolls . . .''