The ascent of Oman
With its oil running out, the Arabian sultanate is hoping tourists will see frankincense and want a little myrrh. Words and pictures by Tim Pile
It doesn't rain much in Muscat. In fact the capital of Oman sees less precipitation annually than Hong Kong can receive during a single sodden summer hour.
Summers in the sultanate bring a different kind of climatic hardship, though, as temperatures routinely reach a brain-boiling 50 degrees Celsius. It's no surprise, then, that Omanis make the most of their mild winter weather. Festivals and fashion shows, sailing regattas and cycling races are all aimed at attracting foreign holidaymakers and luring locals away from their beloved coffee shops and hubbly bubbly pipes.
Besides the organised fare, Muscat - "place of anchorage" in Arabic - is a city suited for leisurely exploration. It is wedged between a cluster of craggy hills, although finding a way up one to get your bearings is easier said than done.
Sensing I'm hopelessly lost, a small boy guides me along a tangle of ancient alleyways. We end up at a lofty vantage point crowned by a watchtower built by the Portuguese in the 16th century and overlooking one of the city's less upmarket neighbourhoods.
Seen through a forest of washing lines and satellite dishes, higgledy-piggledy houses in a huddle appear to be clinging together to keep from collapsing. Minarets pierce the skyline like exclamation marks, but few other buildings rise above two storeys.
Muttrah Souq, back down at sea level, has the whiff of Arabian Nights, or, more accurately, frankincense fumes, about it. Tourists doggedly haggle for ceremonial silver daggers and ornate brass coffee pots in stores predictably named Aladdin's Cave and Ali Baba's. Everyone seems to end up buying pouches of myrrh without knowing exactly what myrrh is.