Frankincense Tea

Yesterday morning with rumbling stomach and only a few hours of sleep, after embracing the sisters who were awake and my Pakistani Papa, Faisal Bhai got me a taxi and reluctantly let me sit in the front seat. Amrit Bhai rode his motorcycle along with us, picking up a too cool for his own greased back hair guy sporting a cigarette somewhere along the way; parting at the entrance to his work at the DHL department. We passed a very beautiful old church (St.Christopher’s) within the airport complex. There was a VIP departing at the same time as we arrived, so the taxi had to finagle its way to the curb. I got my sarangi out of the “diggi” (trunk) and was expecting Faisal would leave with the taxi, but for some reason he let the taxi go and a few minutes later said goodbye and probably had to find another taxi, or who knows…

There was luggage inspection directly inside the doors, and some very nice and impressed inspectors who asked me a million questions about sarangi. The computers were down at the Oman Air desks, still unbelievably people were trying to budge through the line, a porter putting them in place and apologizing to me, “very sorry, Madame”. Was happy to see female immigration officers at Karachi airport, the first international flight I had from there since my first visit several years earlier when I was overnight in transit in Karachi and had my passport confiscated. I was told it was law for transit customers to have their passports held before leaving the airport for the transit hotel. It was all the more dramatic after a day of sufi episodes meeting an Italian Chistiya sheika who judged I was following a false spiritual path and made parallels to a roof not being supported without columns, and a person not being able to leave the country without a passport…. Back at the airport when I went to get my boarding pass I was asked for my passport, when I said I was supposed to collect it from them, I was asked to step out of line and wait. Nearly boarding time, I was called back to get my boarding pass, but wasn’t given my passport. From one desk to another, and finally shoved into the immigration line, the officer looked me up and down and asked where I was from, and wasn’t I Pakistani, I looked so beautiful with a scarf around my neck, and wouldn’t I pull it up to cover my head, how beautiful I would then look. I finally lost decorum to the subtle point that I was capable to someone in such control of my life at that moment, and said, “No, Sir, I am not in prayer now, I’m only praying that you give me my passport back.” Neighboring officers turned heads, and the man sobered and pointed me to the next desk and I was given my passport and the lines opened up for me to pass through.

Waiting for boarding time, I went over to get some chai and the chai wallah struck up a conversation complimenting my urdu and uncertain if I was actually Pakistani or not, his second guess was Turkish, as he didn’t really buy my line about being without a country and being from the Universe. Time passed, I boarded the plane bound for a country of women clad in black robes and veils. I wear clothes the color of my eyes and skin – turquoise head scarf, kurta, Lahori embroidered shoes light sea green dupatta and white silwar; off to see what awaits.

Arrived to dusty mountains and dusty air, men in long white robes with tightly wrapped low turbans or high embroidered hats, and women clad in black. There was a mysterious visa process with lines going to immigration and lines going to a money changer and an information window that was issuing pre-arranged visas. I had to go to the money changer and he collected the fee, then I showed the receipt to the immigration officers – two rather young and dashingly turbaned guys who were pretending to be all stern as they smiled and practiced their English and acted perplexed over an American female arriving from Pakistan, I nodded and agreed it was strange. Passing through and collecting my sarangi, then had it opened by a female customs officer who insisted on plucking the strings over and over and trying to interest the other officers to look (which they didn’t have time for). Outside my friend Ma’at was nowhere in sight, so I figured out the system of buying a phone card and making a public phone call and reached her. She and two friends were being held up by overexerted Indian hospitality, and were finally given the excuse they needed to leave when my call came.

As I waited I pondered endlessly over the mystery tassel at the front right collar of the men’s ankle length robes, wondering what esthetic or useful purpose it could possibly be there for. Looking around at “Magic Wok” and “Costa Coffee”, the dark skinned Nepali faced ladies in bright, bright pinks across the way, the men in their robes; I was trying to gauge whether it was a 3rd world country or 2nd world, but the cleaning lady, in her black toe-socks, asleep behind the bathroom door gave some of the answer away. A short-haired white woman in a short-sleeved tee-shirt finally came into the airport arrival hall and called out to me, walked me out to Ma’at (aka Justine) who was driving a beautiful white car through the arrival lane. A third lady, Fatima, from Hyderabad India, was also with the receiving entourage, and we drove off to the Muscat Mall to grocery shop at a fancy place where international items were plentiful.

As my stomach was rumbling and I felt in the thick of a flu, Ma'at suggested I get some tea at "Mood Cafe" and put medicinal-grade frankincense into it. What a taste! Hunza apricots, and Omani frankincense tea...what a life I lead!! I know why the wise men brought Frankincense to baby Jesus, not for the smell, to keep him alive through the cold winter nights! It was about a two hour drive back to Nizwa, we stopped at a little town off the main road, where the ladies put on their tourist shopping hats and stocked up on ceramic items (from little turned up shoes to vases to decorative Arabic plaques).

For the first time in perhaps weeks, I had a full night’s sleep, and a nearly hot shower – though Ma’at’s gas ran out and being Friday no one is working so it can’t be replaced so no stove cooking or hot showers til then. I took a walk out to the Shell station where there were purportedly samosas to be found…but being Friday…. It was a lovely 20 step stroll, gazing at the jagged, crumbling mountains all around. Something in the very nature of the stone seems restless, maybe they are just a mirror for me, though.

Ma’at, and apparently all of her expat friends here, want me to come and teach, and the University even agreed to us splitting a year’s contract, where I work 6 months, then she works 6 months, we live in the same lovely, fully furnished and livable apartment. Before we arrived to Nizwa, I determined if before leaving this week I find a very advanced North Indian musician, a recording studio/producer to work with, and the love of my life….I’ll definitely take the job. I have to admit, I think the love of my life is everywhere, and it need not matter where I go…if the love of my life does not travel along with me I will be bound to find the love of my life where I go….insha’Allah. Though already in NY I have those 3 ingrediants, and as Papa says, “Why go to Multan, Sufi is here!?” He is right, but also I must go, and he knows, and he allows me my journey.