Oman was never supposed to be part of my story, I never intended to stay here, so I don't suppose to make fixed plans anymore.
In Oman, it is only bin cats and goats I have to worry about near the garbage, which are not much a worry at all. And the scent of starting the fire here is usually gasoline poison smoke, or too much paper, for wood is scarce, and the world is hot enough most of the time, except in the night, in the desert, or high in the mountains.
Up, the hills, blue with evergreen, or sometimes, clouds of mist curling, and only the bare shadow of the memory of trees.
I swear, I never felt my feet at all until I set down in Muscat International Airport, and came to a land, where the cold water tap in the shower and the metal of my own seatbelt buckle could burn me. I laugh at that now, so far away from the icy dark ocean with its sharp waves bashing black jutting rocks, where I used to swim for hours. My father says people could succumb to hypothermia in thirty minutes there, but I never did.
I think I'd die now though, if I just tried to wade more than my knees into that water, thick with its tangle of green kelp and bitter cold. I wear sweaters in Oman in Janurary.
I remember standing on the edge of the world on those rocks, splashes of rabid foam into the sky, daring the world--- and perhaps God--- to give me adventure, to take me away to another land, another world than this silver island, hills of dark green, knotted forests that reach down to the shores, which are lined with the bones of trees, silvered with salt.
I don't very much like being disapointed and having my plans not work out, and even less, being helpless. It feels strange, to know I am going back, but to be home, in Oman.