Let's Get Happy |
Having just undertaken two long days with almost 1000km of distance covered in 19 hours of driving, I relished the idea of a plain, boring, chill out day.
Store Entrance |
I took a gentle stroll in Ruwi, but this time I headed into an area further south of the C.B.D. This was a marked contrast to the immaculate, sterile financial district. Soon I was weaving in and out of alleyways brimming with small businesses and shops. Gleaming cars were parked higgledy-piggledy on either side of the alleys, with others trying to squeeze through. In one such small lane I came across a large delivery truck trying to pick its way through. Cars stacked up behind were tooting their horns, a queue of cars that had been approaching the truck head-on were taking an age to reverse back. Oh, what fun!
Anyone for a Suitcase? |
In all this traipsing, I came to fully understand why Ruwi and its environs was referred to as "Little India". It seemed to be 95% Indian, and probably the nearest I have ever come to experiencing Calcutta.
Iranian Bank |
I watched the middle-aged man, who looked older than he probably was, make my coffee. He was very dark, with fine moist black eyes and thick eyelashes. He had an earnest grave expression and hardly ever a smile on his face. A small paper cup, two teaspoons of instant coffee, a spoon of sugar which I never normally indulge in, and then he went to the back to get boiling water. A quick stir followed by condensed milk poured from a great height, another stir, and that was it. 150 Baisa or 24p! Delicious, the sugar just took the edge off the bitterness.
I had noticed during my long stroll that the local population, which was predominantly Indian/Pakistani, were inclined to spit in the street. Now when I was a lad, I used to see coal-miners spit in the street, great mouthfuls of black and grey dust congealed in sticky globules that would adhere to the pavements like cow-pats. When I asked my father or grandfathers why they did this, "Te git rid t'coal dust," was the response. But why these guys in Ruwi spat all the time I'll never know.
At Least They're Honest |
I succumbed to the heat, had a nap, then retired to the swimming pool until the sun had set, and a faint memory of the vanished day still lingered in the west.
Later in the evening, I returned to this district to take in how it functioned at night. Although I tend to forget to eat in this heat, I realised I needed to take food on board. I was determined to find an Omani food restaurant.
Sultan Qaboos Mosque at Night |
Another Mosque at Night |
Perhaps this was due to around triple the number of people on the streets after dark. I stumbled across areas where large numbers of Indians were congregated on both sides of the street. There was no correlation between where they were gathered and the businesses in that locality. It was as if they were gathered to witness a stage of a cycle race about to whizz through, but there was no such special event. I plodded through the spittoons of streets, looking in vain for Omani food. After a good while, a young Indian lad, holding the hand of his tiny brother, informed me in excellent English that it was all Indian food in this district.
I gave up and settled for a dish, whose name meant nothing to me, but it smacked of curry.
I returned to base to watch Wales beat England in a Six Nations clash, a really tough, hard-tackling match. The Welsh deserved to win, they played it well and prevented England from opening up the game. Next year perhaps.