The No Objection Certificate by Virginia Forbes

The No Objection Certificate by Virginia Forbes

The No Objection Certificate n. 7264, in which Petroleum Development Oman promised my good conduct and behaviour, got me safely into Oman in November 1983.

Muscat was a small white town, huddled round an empty harbour, and surrounded by bare harsh rocks , on which were painted the names of British warships which had visited over the last few centuries. The forts of Jalali and Mirani dominated the harbour on either side, the Sultan’s palace and British and American embassies being the only other buildings of significance. My three blond haired nephews, all under 5, were frequently to be found playing amongst the boats drawn up on the pebbled beach, joined by the Palace guards who, with characteristic good humour, would let the boys manhandle their long rifles.

Loaded into the Nissan, our family took off along the Nizwa road to camp at Gubrah al Tarn, stopping at Wadi Tayin to swim in the crystal clear water. Nights in the desert were freezing, and we lay in sleeping bags beside a crackling fire, watching the shooting stars and satellites crossing the night skies, rarely seeing or hearing a plane. Inevitably in the morning, one or two tribesmen would be squatting, a short distance away, observing us, soon to join the camp with huge smiles and incomprehensible Arabic. As mugs of tea were shared, the sun rose, turning the surrounding mountains slowly from grey to hot golden brown, and then as the evening approached, they folded into each other, pale lilac and purple.

Roads were sanded tracks, with only the occasional large overladen lorry thundering past. Winding our way through the hills, the quarrelling from the back of the car got too much for my brother. The car skidded to a halt in the sand, one child was ejected, and we drove off. The sight of the little blond figure standing by the track and fading into the distance, is never forgotten. Returning, about five minutes’ later, we found him in the midst of a group of bemused locals, the arms of an old man sheltering his little form, almost unwilling to surrender him back to those who had abandoned him.

At Sur we stopped to watch dhows being built on the beach, lazed on the empty sands of Qalhat, and explored the ruins of Miriamu, where one lone crumbling sandstone building stood as the last memory of a once great city. We drove the long empty and stony valleys to the forts at Nizwa, Jabrin and Rustaq, the adults sheltering in their inner courtyards from the heat, the three blond boys playing amongst the oasis palm trees with the local kids. We plunged into Wadi Shaub’s emerald green pools and then camped on the sands. My memories of the Oman of that time are of vast, silent landscapes peopled by friendly, always smiling Omanis. Wind in the palm trees, purple hills, glorious solitary camping, and no tourists anywhere!

Virginia Forbes joined the Board of the Arab-British Centre in May 2009. Click here to find out more about her.