A Day Trip to Dibba Musandam in the Sultanate of Oman

I have always been lucky with travel. That much I know and acknowledge. All thanks to GOD almighty, or how else will you explain this stroke of luck? A few months back whilst in Dubai, I decided to pick a newspaper after breakfast at the hotel I was putting up in, and believe me, picking […]

I have always been lucky with travel. That much I know and acknowledge. All thanks to GOD almighty, or how else will you explain this stroke of luck?
A few months back whilst in Dubai, I decided to pick a newspaper after breakfast at the hotel I was putting up in, and believe me, picking up a newspaper before or after breakfast, a common trait with Europeans is not something that I have.
Back in my room, I slumped into bed and began to flip through the pages.
The front pages were filled with the usual issues of the moment – Iran nuclear deal, Syria, Libya, Afghanistan, etc.
Delving further into the pages I couldn’t believe what I came across. An advert for a day trip to a place called Dibba Musandam in the Sultanate of Oman.
I initially thought it was meant for the locals, as the Emiratis like to call themselves, and a term that they, and even me, don’t consider derogatory.
Then I saw the magic words ‘no visa required’ at the bottom of the advert.
Knowing how difficult and time consuming getting an Omanese visa is, I jumped out of bed and sat by the window, to beam in more light onto the page.
This is what I found out about the trip: The day trip costs about 100 dollars or probably less I think-can’t exactly recall and comes with a cruise in a traditional Omani dhow, with the option of a sleepover on board under the stars and moonlight for a party of not less than fifteen, at a different cost of course, if they so wish.
I quickly placed a call to the number provided at the bottom of the advert, and a lady with a hypnotic Asian accent picked.
I greeted and fired, with a sense of urgency easily detectable in my voice; “What do I have to do to go on this trip?”
“Send copy of your passport data page a day before and we will arrange an entry permit plus pick-up in your hotel at 7:00 am,” she fired back, exactly to the point.
“And how do I pay?” I went on to ask.
“You give the money to the driver on arrival,” she replied.
I was comfortable with this arrangement and would have sent the data page immediately if not because I had a friend -Muhammad Bashir Yushau – in town, staying at a different hotel, whom I know for sure will be glad to join me on this adventure.
I put a call across to him, and as predicted he immediately welcomed the idea.
He sent a copy of his passport and together with mine I forwarded to the Asian lady, who had by then sent her e-mail address.
I requested him to join me early morning the following day since I had already given them my location. True to type, Bash was there on the dot, and so was the driver.
At the reception, I noticed the driver looking over our shoulders for his passengers.
We approached and asked in that peculiar Dubaian shortcut popular with Asians, ‘Dibba Musandam?’
He said ‘yes’, looking at us with lots of questions on his mind.
I could tell he was expecting to see Oyibos of Arabian descent from our names.
Outside the hotel we hopped onto a small Toyota Hiace bus, and the driver said: “We have another pick-up at the Sofitel in Dubai Marina.”
In no time we were joined by a young French couple of Arab/Nordic descent – my guess.
It turned out I was right on their nationality and the young man’s descent, but, the girl’s? I wasn’t too sure and didn’t get an opportunity to satisfy my curiosity before we unexpectedly parted because of an accident at sea in Oman – will get to that later.
We drove for about an hour through the emirates of Sharjah, Ajman, Umm al Quwain, Ras al Khaimah, and Fujaira.
Now, the farthest I had gone in the emirates, before that day, was to Ras al Khaimah, an emirate I enjoy visiting and that which is popular with tourists from Europe, but most especially and not too surprisingly, the Russians.
I figured the Russians need the sun most to counter their extreme winter and white nights.
Because of that, Al Hamra real estate developers created a whole village in Ras al Khaimah comprising of villas/ apartments, a mall, golf courses, restaurants and hotels, amongst which is the world famous Waldorf Astoria.
It is a project that has attracted investors from not only Russia and the rest of Europe, but all parts of the world.
As soon as we veered off onto the road to Fujaira emirate, the late Abubakar Ladan’s book/quote ‘tafiya mabudin ilmi’, roughly translated as, ‘ travel is the key to acquiring knowledge’, came to mind, as I wasn’t prepared for what I saw.
The road from Ras to Fujaira Emirate is so unlike that of Dubai to Abu Dhabi, or to the other emirates that you can’t help but be awed by its sheer beauty.
First of all, there is a noticeable demarcation of where the desert suddenly vanishes and dark rugged mountains come into view and we noticed this from the harder surface we found ourselves driving on.
We felt as if we had completely and suddenly gone out of the UAE.
The Fujaira Emirate has a completely different character from the rest of the emirates. Its roads are sandwiched by beautifully decorated mountains, complete with nets to block grasing animals that may include camels from coming onto the roads.
At that point I wondered what a drive to Muscat, their capital, on that beautiful road will unveil, and wished we were going that far.
Major towns we came across are Ghub – a fascinating name to me, and Dibba al Hisn. Dibba al Hisn, the border town on the side of the UAE, which incidentally shares first names with the border town in the Sultanate, is famous for its fish market and ancient fortresses.
It was later I came to find out Dibba is a popular first name much the same way John is with British people, with cities and towns around the area, and al Hisn the smallest of them all. 
As we drove through the city centre, I noticed the street lights and décor on the roads are exactly like those of Sharjah -Victorian.
I asked the driver, ‘how come this looks like Sharjah?’
Dibba al Hisn is a pene-exclave of Sharjah’, he replied.
Having left Sharjah way back, I couldn’t understand why or how, so just mimicked Frank Olize, for those old enough to remember his Sunday Sunday tonic on NTA, by saying, ‘I hear you’, but more like to myself.
Minutes later we arrived at the border. The driver collected our passports and walked down to the immigration officer and before you could say ‘Sultan’ we were cleared to drive into the Sultanate.
At that point, my excitement from adding a country onto my list knew no bounds.
In my opinion, Musandam is not as big or as organised as al Hisn but all the same accepted it because they say so.
In about 10 minutes or thereabout we were parked by a row of dhows at a harbor expectedly named after their Sultan – Qaboos.
A representative of the tour company led us through a series of jumps across a row of dhows in order to get to the one we took to sea.
Though I enjoyed the slight but somewhat dangerous exercise, I wondered why they didn’t steer the dhow close to shore before our arrival.
I was happy to see the dhow assuredly big enough to carry 10 times our number and had an upper, middle, and lower deck.
The lower had toilets and I believe rooms, but we didn’t bother checking.
As soon as we settled on the middle deck, I began to survey the environment. The dhow had benches covered with a reddish Syrian material on one side of the deck and Arabian style cushions of the same material spread on the floor of the other side, with an isle strategically placed in the middle.
I then took a closer look at the surrounding sea and was faced with the most beautiful waters I have seen, to date.
Within moments we sailed out to sea, and immediately after, the girl stood out on the edge of the deck with her camera and other gadgets.
Her excitement, which could almost be touched, encircled all of us.
Her partner, whom I suspect was taking the cruise not for the first time and was pretending, just to impress, remained seated typing away on his phone, clearly happy with the outcome -I could tell.
The cruise, on board this traditional Omani dhow, takes usually about 4 hours, and comes with breakfast, lunch, dinner and refreshments, depending on the option chosen, plus a variety of activities, like a dip in the emerald green waters, snorkeling, banana boat ride and hard line fishing.
30 minutes to 1 hour into the cruise we came to the point where the sea met a rugged and imposing mountain range.
That view in itself alone is enough to make the place an ideal tourist destination. We maneuvered our way through the rugged mountains and eventually docked at a safe distance from shore.
Now, because we didn’t know or were not prepared for any of the activities that come with the package, we, along with the rest of the crew, became more like spectators as our co-travelers opted and prepared for the banana boat ride first.
We watched as they donned life jackets and descended onto a banana shaped balloon attached to a speed boat that we didn’t know was in the dhow.
The speed boat, true to its name, took off with speed, first in the direction of the coast, before taking a sharp bend right back into sea. It was at that point the accident I said I’ll come back to occurred.
From a distance, what we saw was the banana like balloon capsising and them desperately trying to get onboard the speed boat.
As soon as they did, the driver sped back in our direction.
I noticed the girl was visibly shaken and having difficulty breathing when they climbed back onto the dhow.
Confused and not knowing what to do, either she or her partner – not sure who but strongly suspect him – picked some ice from a cooler and gave her.
She pressed the ice by the side of her ribs. Within a minute or two, she collapsed, and panic set in.
There and then we all agreed they should be taken back to land in the speed boat for quick medical attention. I and Bashir were left to wait in the dhow with two crew members who could neither speak English nor our local dialect.
It was really hot and humid and I was beginning to get hungry.
After about 30 minutes of occasional glances between the crew and us, they opened a drawer beneath the isle and brought out lunch of fried chicken, salads, rice and assorted drinks, more than enough for all of us.
It was as if they read our minds.
Lunch over, my senses came round and I began to think.
I realised we were docked mid sea and none of us could steer that dhow away from danger – if at all it came.
A combination of that and many other thoughts occupied my mind, making the wait for the captains return appeared the longest ever at sea.
Were this to be in the pirate infested waters of east Africa, the wait would have seemed much longer, I thought, to console myself.
One thing that caught our attention and steered my thought away as we waited was a lone house or hut surrounded by mountains in a cul-de-sac, complete with its own water tank, electricity and a few animals grasing by the mountain cliff, but with no sign of life.
The language barrier denied us the opportunity of finding out more of who or what lives in such an obscure place, like a castaway, and I concluded that even if the owner is of us, he or she must be partly of them also, if you catch my drift.
We must have waited for well, over an hour-and-half, before finally catching the roar of what sounded like an engine at a distance.
We couldn’t be sure who or what it was because we were docked in between two rugged mountains. It mercifully turned out to be our captain.
As the dhow wobbled back in the direction of the harbour, I noticed the sun cast a shadow on the emerald green waters, giving a picturesque or postcard perfect view of itself and the Omani sea.
Back to shore, we were surprised to find the driver waiting alone, and we asked him: “Where are they?”
“They took a taxi back to Dubai,” he replied.
That got me thinking: is the hospital in Musandam not big enough to handle whatever her problem was? And to date we have no idea what happened to her or how she ended up.
On our way out we asked the driver to stop at a Masjid so we could offer our prayers. He said ‘OK’ and went on to dangle the option of a detour to a Masjid he claimed the prophet offered prayers in, of course, at a cost, if we were willing to pay.
We rejected the offer and opted for a masjid we saw close to the gate for three reasons-We never heard of the Masjid or a hadith on it before. It wasn’t part of our arrangement with his company and it was getting late, and a detour in the world we live in today shouldn’t even be on the cards or contemplated, not to mention the distance he mentioned.
The immigration officer on our way out was much more inquisitive than the male one that let us in. For some reasons best known to her, she kept looking at our passports and casting a glance at us before she finally handed them to us.