MASIRAH ISLAND: HOW I GOT STUCK ON A DESERTED ISLAND IN OMAN
Do you remember the time I got stuck on Masirah Island?
The hill was gentle, my bare feet sliding backward in the sand with every step I took uphill. After reaching the top, I turned around to look at the endless white sand dunes stretching out to sea.
Wave after wave crashed on the shore, but the roaring wind in my ears prevented me from hearing them. The sand blew over my feet, my arms, and my face, stinging me with every grain, but I had to be careful.
There were only two signs of human life: the road in front of me, its black surface distorted by the sand that ran across it, and two small, rickety structures assembled from driftwood and fishing nets.
I had stood here the night before, watching the sun set behind the promontory in the distance. Then it was quiet, the street empty and sparkling, and the dunes settled among the bristling vegetation. But now it was another world.
I had started the five-day vacation on Masirah Island with friends. But after two nights of struggling with windblown tents, windblown sand, noisy cam
pers nearby, and a grumpy sleepless 13-month-old boy who kept trying to swallow the sand from a whole beach, they decided it was time to go home and head for the ferry. I was alone.
The road around Masirah Island only takes two hours to drive, so there was plenty of time for stops on my trip. Gravel roads lead up the barren Rocky Mountains to who knows where. I stopped to say hello to two camels.
Lonely beaches screamed for wandering, and I crossed a flat rocky coast of what would be another island at high tide. A trillion different seashells cracked under my feet and some local guys showed concern for me, fearing I'd be stuck on the island under the rising tide.
Then I climbed this hill in the sand dunes. The sunset in a dramatic scene, casting long shadows from the smallest of dunes and sending golden light through the spray waves. The street glowed black below me and no sound pierced the air.
Later, on the way back to town, supermom stood up in the hills in front of me, pointing out how glorious that afternoon had been.
Early in the morning, he met me on the road around the island, looking for different lights, different views, and different stops. For the first hour, I was alone, standing on rocky beaches and hills with no other souls or cars in sight. On a long weekend when Masirah Island was "busy" it was amazing how empty it was.
A beach hut haphazardly assembled from debris and driftwood overlooked a beautiful white sand beach with crashing waves.
Camels were resting by a pink lagoon, other dirt roads headed into the mountains, and empty roads stretched out before me, luring me in with the solitude they offered.
Finely carved headstones from an old cemetery (ok, not as old as the bat graves, but still old) blended into a hill above the road. If you weren't looking for it, you would never see it.
The extreme tip of Masirah Island is completely covered in white sand and rolling blue waves. Standing on top of a hill and watching the shows on the sea, I was hit by the wind which was getting stronger by the minute. But there was still time to get the ferry.
I got into the long queue at the platform, rolled down the windows, and turned off the engine, letting the breeze blow through the car to cool me down instead of the air conditioning, Looked like I was going to be sitting here for a while.
Cars passed me in the other direction, slowly, and then one stopped.
I was surprised. Who? What? How did he know my name?
“Don't waste time waiting, he said, there won't be a ferry today.
And just like that, I was stuck on Masirah Island for another night.
Now I know you're thinking 'Oh, poor Jenny, you were supposed to stay longer than expected on a deserted island (literally), life is awfully hard...' but give me a break here. Because there's this thing, you know, where you can have fun somewhere and wish you could stay longer, but as soon as you can't leave, that's actually the last place you really want to be.
I had heard the first bad news when I arrived at the National Ferry Company office to collect my ticket. It was too windy so there wouldn't be a boat today, but I could try my luck with the local ferry. In strong winds and rough seas the same one, the passing crew pointed out and told us not to take as their safety procedures were somewhat questionable.
So even though I was queuing for the local ferry, I was a bit terrified of taking the dangerous boat in bad weather. But I didn't know what else to do. I had to leave Masirah Island. Work was waiting for me to come back in two days, and anyway that night I had nowhere to stay. It consoled me that if I couldn't get off the island, I would at least have my own tent and my own car to sleep in if all else failed.
And then Ibrahim found me. Wasta (influence or relationships with important people) is a beautiful thing. Someone at work in my friend's department arranged the ferry for us and gave her a contact if there was a problem. We had already been in contact with him once when we were late for the ferry.
So, as I sat in the car waiting in line, Ibrahim passed me and stopped. I don't even know how he knew I was still there, or if he knew I was waiting for that ferry, or if he was lucky he found the only foreign girl in line and he realized she was one of us with the trash.. And you better help him.
Ibrahim told me not to waste time waiting, took my phone number, and said he would call me when there was the hope of a ferry.
What to do? I headed for the hills.
An incredible stroke of luck brought me back to the same room in the same hotel that I had just left, despite half the tourists on the island looking for a place to spend the night. I thanked my lucky stars that I shouldn't have tried to pitch my tent in that wind.
A quick tour of the town of Hilf told me it was definitely not as pretty as the rest of the island, and the strong wind and blowing sand made getting out of the car uncomfortable. So, tired after the long morning drive, I went back to my room for a long nap.
Got a lot of stares while dining at a sidewalk table in Hilf that night, I guess it's rare to see a foreign woman eating alone in Hilf.
Early the next morning, the ferry queue circled the marina and down the street. I hadn't heard from Ibrahim and needed to get home, so there I was, with everyone who had been stuck since the day before. I turned off the car and went to the front row, where a man told me he had been waiting since 4 a.m. For a ferry that might not leave. Everyone had to go back to work the next day.
But my rubbish really worked and Ibrahim phoned me around 8 am. Be in the office at 8:30, he said. I went straight away but had to wait my turn behind a crowd of people.
"Go straight ahead," the woman said, handing me the map. I was confused. Of course, the ferry is direct. Where else would he go?
He clocked the clock. 9:00 was printed on my boarding pass. My phone said 8:50. "Go straight ahead," he said. Oh. Finished.
I passed everyone else in my car, waving my boarding pass at the police stopping cars from driving along with the narrow platform. Ibrahim was there, in the cars, and I gave him an incredibly grateful thank you. I was finally on the ferry, with a long ride ahead of me, but at least on my way back.
So if you are going to Masirah Island, check the weather forecast first, unless you want to get stuck. And take some litter.
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