The Deafening Sounds of Jabal Al-Akdar
Jabal Al-Akdar is an unforgiving landscape desperate for water, for shade, for mercy. It is a place where everything and nothing changes. Wind invisibly sculpts consummate lines through billion year old rock while modern infrastructure simultaneously carves a winding concrete asphalt snake, traversing a path into the Jabal mountain range. Where you least expect humans to make camp, they make camp. A landscape that transforms in subdued color palettes from first light to the shine of the moon. They walk at night with donkeys in tow, timed by lunar radiance, probably as they have for thousands of years. The moon casts a strange midnight blue shadow across a rocky backdrop that’s nearly as bright as the sun. By 5AM, the pastels of the sun begin to fill creases through the rock face until it reaches its potential; a mimicry of tones from a Degas painting. Oman’s morning light is filled with orange hues exacerbated by the red rock mountains as the sun peeks over an eastern horizon.
It is as if Jabal Al-Akdar is noiseless. Its silence is deafening. I’ve heard of places that can drive a person crazy from silence. Oman’s silence echoes those sentiments of vacancy. I listen for noise…a cricket, the wind, anything but only peace and tranquility are present. There are no planes flying overhead and cars are a rarity. Yet somehow, I long for the din of civilization. There is an absence of laughter and voices. It’s a palpable repression of some of the best parts of human nature. I'm engulfed in a noiseless paradise and realize that I miss the sound of music, of children’s laughter and dogs barking. Oman is exceptionally subdued. I imagine 500 years ago, it was exactly the same but their conversations have differed slightly - now they speak to their Pakistani servants in broken English and they ask their spouses of when they’ll return from Muscat.
Oman is untainted. It is without the influence of the west, without the stress of time. It is not defined by pressures from superficial influence or people who always want more. It is simply enough. Until tourists, like myself, stop by. A breakfast spot serves as a stopping point for a group of scantily clad Japanese tourist girls as they giggle their way through the morning. They’re brave or ignorant to the fact that Omanis require women cover themselves from elbows to knees. I don’t fault them. It’s what they know. They bring with them the constant dinging of emails, texts and photo clicks with selfie sticks. No sooner than they arrive, they’re already packed and gone. They haven’t even touched the sweet date nectar; the fruit of Omani laborers. The date is their pride and joy but the tourists presence is usually pointed at self. It is only the fault of the society they were born in.
In matters of sound, Oman seems to be the place antithetical to the world I know. My mind can’t help but wonder about my nephews worlds away. Did they go to bed past their bedtime? Did they wake up happy? Did they have a good breakfast? Or did they rush to fill that space with noise? The west is consumed with an insatiable need for electronic immediacy. I try to remember the time before the Information Age and the only thing that comes to mind is the tree I spent countless hours in as a child. They were simpler times that have been replaced with the constant deluge of technological leaps and bounds laced with planned obsolescence.
The quest in Oman is for ‘enough.’ It is not about the chase. It is not about things - always wanting, wishing, hoping for something - else. I’ve had things and spent a lifetime in chase. Now I find myself in a chase against time to eradicate the chase of things, status, money or power. I’ve come to realize that if you chase something, it’s never enough. It will never be enough. Western society should be tempering the chase. What matters most isn’t the noise of things that are material. Our time on earth is all about what will happen when our time here is done and our time here isn’t even about a time we won’t even live. It is about what we gift future generations. Being here is a reminder that boredom is a construct of the mind. In the west, we create ‘things’ to fill the space of void. Gadgetry and electronic waste are there to allow us to believe we aren’t empty. If you grew up without that thought (as my generation and generations before me mostly did) - that you aren’t even aware of the things, then there is nothing to be missed.
The village imam said they want to make sure their beards are trim and neat. He stressed the importance of a tidy beard. I ask why and he explains that they don’t want to appear “religious.” He says it with air quotes. I’m also impressed that air quotes seem to be universal. Although he is a holy man, he needs me to know he isn’t an extremist. They are careful not to mince words. They want me to know they aren’t religious people, even though everything they do is a result of a religious world imposed upon them. Omanis love travelers and take great pride in opening their homes to the west; where eager boys in white dishdash can’t wait to show us their tiny town. Young village girls who weren’t allowed to speak because of the confines of their religion - wanted to make an appearance but rushed across the living room to a blue backdrop that has never been affected by outside influence, only time. They sit in windowsills that peer out across the same date palms, probably for centuries. A piece of misaligned wallpaper covers the top window to keep the sun from shining in. The world inside feels dark but what do I know. Light and dark are transposed from my western world. Perhaps I have it all wrong. Maybe freedom exists in their own way within these walls. Maybe freedom is just being around family.
It’s easy to spot the west in a sea of dishdash and burka. I often wonder if they’re as judgmental about me as I am of them. As a woman of the American west, it’s nearly impossible for me to understand what’s behind the veil. Yet I have so many questions - Why? Is it comfortable? Do you want to be under there? What’s it like in a black cape in 110 degree heat? I suspect that somewhere along the line, it becomes the Myth of Sisyphus as explained by Albert Camus. And I often wonder what they wonder about me. Am I the harlot, the infidel, the wild child, the defector? Whatever the case, there’s a saying in Omani culture “to be kind costs you nothing” and they are some of the kindest on earth.
As I touchdown on American soil in New York City, I’m reminded that when you reemerge into roaring electronic sensory overload from a place without noise; it only makes things increasingly louder. I feel crazy.