It smells pungently of ethanol and disinfectant. Our legs cling to black leather armchairs, through the tinted glass door we look out onto a dusty, empty street, behind it a few withered grasses surrounded by rubble. The sun burns down on the shadowless ground. At least it's refreshingly cool in here. We actually wanted to be in the saddle by now. After a seven-hour flight, we had landed in Oman's capital Muscat in the morning and had assembled our bikes in a bike shop. We wanted to set off, we just needed water. Instead, we were sitting in a barber's shop drinking black coffee. Mustafa, the owner, had waved us in after we had asked him in sign language for something to drink. Now he is busy but relaxed, mixing hair care chemicals and chatting to a friend in Arabic. We sip our drinks a little helplessly as they don't quench our thirst.
We had planned to travel a thousand kilometres, equipped with a tent and sleeping bag, on a round trip through Oman, which has now come to a standstill before it has even begun. Laura and I wanted to travel to a region that was unknown to us. Someone had told us that Oman was the Switzerland of the Middle East and that it was supposed to be warm there in the European winter. However, we don't know how advisable it is for women to travel alone through a strictly Islamic country with neighbours such as Yemen and Saudi Arabia, which are not known for liberal women's rights. Our coffee cups are empty. "Inshallah," says Mustafa with a smile and asks for a selfie with us. We drive off. Without water.
Cycling on the motorway: allowed in Oman
"Oh my God. If only my dad knew!" Laura shouts over to me. Traffic noise thunders around us, from cars and huge lorries. We have landed on the Muscat Expressway, and the most worrying thing is that, according to our GPS navigation, which we want to use to follow the route of the local ultra-distance race "Bikingman", it is the right road. Although there is enough space on the hard shoulder, and it is permitted, it is still unpleasant. A bumpy, rocky, uninviting landscape lies to our right, with the outline of the industrial periphery of Greater Muscat visible on the horizon. At least the tarmac is rolling well. And we know that: We won't reach the cycling highlight for another few days: the sunny mountain of Jabal Shams, the highest mountain in Oman at around 3,000 metres. The route there first takes us westwards into the interior of the country before turning south-eastwards. The foot of the mountain awaits us in around 400 kilometres.
Overnight stay in a fast food restaurant
We spend the first night in a hotel on the edge of a lively coastal town, where we watch the fishermen and busy traders and from whose minaret the call of the muezzin reaches our room in the evening. The next night we are braver: we camp, which is allowed everywhere in Oman. The third day ends in the back room of an Indian snack bar. As all the accommodation in the village is already fully booked, chef Shajid lets us stay in his room without further ado; he is staying elsewhere, he explains. "Everyone here will welcome you with kindness," an Omani assured us on the first day. "You are our guests and you will be safe wherever you go." We can hardly believe how right he was. After a few days, we find it difficult to assign the many telephone numbers that we are given in a helpful but not intrusive manner to the people we meet. We only notice one thing: We haven't spoken to any women yet.
Desert nights are cold
The next day, a lonely stage leads us to Jabal Shams, initially over an intermediate pass with the first challenging gravel sections. Have we lost our way? Not really, as the mighty mountain looming ahead of us proves. However, the sun is already setting and casting long shadows. A pick-up driver offers to drive us to our booked accommodation on the mountain. We decline with thanks, we haven't earned our evening off yet. Shortly afterwards, we find ourselves in front of a wall. A few cars are still crawling down the mountain at a snail's pace. Stunned looks meet us from the car windows. A few minutes later we descend, breathing heavily, our legs burning. We push on in silence, a few dozen metres apart. The darkness descends on us. We ponder in our minds: Assuming we keep up the pace of the last hour, would we make it to the top by midnight? Maybe. Would the light last that long? Probably not. Would the moonlight be enough? Maybe. But do we want to exhaust ourselves like this today? Does it make sense to push our bikes up an absurdly steep mountain through the darkness for five hours, using all our strength? Why do people build such steep tracks? Fortunately, the road flattens out a little. We climb up again. Then we see a light. "Food Stuff Shop" is written in bright letters on the mountain hut, which turns out to be a mini supermarket. Laura buys crisps and one of every chocolate bar available. I take biscuits, muffins and a Coke. Everything slides down my oesophagus in a few moments, sweet and sticky, sending life signals from the centre of my body. But the air suddenly turns icy cold. We are at an altitude of over 1,300 metres, the heat of the day is as far away as our accommodation. In the last 75 minutes, we have not covered much more than five kilometres and 500 metres in altitude - and more than three times that distance still lies ahead of us. Do we want to try and push our limits now? Or can we hitchhike to our accommodation and still be happy without the feeling of having failed on the mountain? We haven't found any answers yet when the owner of the supermarket closes his door with a creak. The only light goes out. "Taxi?" he asks. A little later, we're crammed between our bikes in a minibus as we rumble up the mountain. At the top, guesthouse owner Said is already waiting for us by the fire, surrounded by his family. And when he leads us to a delicious buffet of local dishes, prepared just for us, we know that we have made the right decision. The next morning, Said has to drive his flatbed lorry down into the valley and takes us and our bikes back to the Food Stuff Shop. From here, we want to complete the second part of the climb under our own steam. We enjoy every metre and are speechlessly impressed by the view in daylight. Oranges and water are handed to us from cars. The occupants wave, honk and cheer us on. When we finally reach the summit above the canyon, each of us has found a few more answers to the questions we asked the night before.
A marriage proposal and a house
After another night on the mountain, we set off through rugged mountains, past oases and through villages. In the evening we reach a farm with guest bungalows. The landlord, Yonis, is delighted to have visitors. We talk about travelling and our cultures. "We have it good here, we have enough of everything and are happy to share," he explains with a look of satisfaction on his face and asks if we would like to stay for a while. "Why don't you stay?" Yonis asks me the next morning. "You'll get gold. And I'll build you a house." I'm a little perplexed. Laura and I are standing in his greenhouse in cycling gear, ready to go. Yonis picks me a fresh banana. I could become his second wife, live in my own house, do what I want, go shopping with his first wife, maybe we'd get on well. In the past, all the women lived together, but nowadays they each get their own house. "Not every man can afford that!" he says proudly. I want to know if I would have my own money as a woman. "To buy what?" he asks, and I suddenly realise how incomprehensible the question must be for Yonis. We finally tear ourselves away and drive through the increasingly hot day towards the desert. The possibilities of lives lived and unlived continue to buzz in my mind, as fleeting and intangible as the shimmering air above the hot tarmac ...
There are only racing cyclists in Oman
Suddenly there he is, like an alien fallen from the sky. A local racing cyclist, dressed in cycling shorts and jersey, with helmet and gloves. "Abdullah", he introduces himself and sits down in front of us on his bike. With sweeping gestures, he points out every little stone on the immaculate tarmac, slows down long before every junction and warns us of every car. Abdullah is in his early 30s and a member of one of the few informally organised cycling clubs, we learn over lunch after we reach the coast. He wears cycling shorts that reach above his knees. We ask him if it's okay to be travelling the way we are. Yes, we are guests here and different rules apply to them than to locals. Women, for example, are like pearls here, he explains, so you have to watch out for them. They don't go out on the street on their own, but in the house everyone does what they want. "If I lived here," asks Laura, "I wouldn't be able to join a cycling club, would I?" "That's right," replies Abdullah, "but you'd get an exercise bike, the best one! Inshallah." We're not sure whether it's general interest, hospitality or a sense of obligation, but Abdullah changes his original plan of a short ride with nothing but a few nuts in his pocket. He accompanies us 160 kilometres to the coastal town of Sur. As it gets late, we are pleased to be able to help out with food, light and even some slipstream - finally we can give something back.
A mammoth stage brings us back to Muscat the next day. We get the blues at dinner in the five-star hotel. We are met with a seemingly skilful friendliness. What we wouldn't give for a coffee in the hairdressing salon! We could walk around the hotel in shorts without a second thought, but we prefer to wear long trousers. We have learnt a lot on this short trip, about a foreign culture and about ourselves. But much will probably always remain hidden from us. Inshallah.
Brief info: Cycling in Oman
Oman is located in the south-east of the Arabian Peninsula and borders the United Arab Emirates, Saudi Arabia and Yemen. In ancient times, the country was known for the production and export of frankincense; the silk route followed the coasts of the Arabian Sea. Today, the population of just under five million lives mainly in cities: around 30,000 in the capital Muscat, but more than a million in its agglomeration. The sultanate is an absolute monarchy. Although it has a constitution, ministers appointed by the Sultan and two national parliaments, the latter only have an advisory function. Our cycle route leads westwards from Muscat into the interior to discover some spectacular regions, including the Hajar Mountains with its highest point, the Jabal Shams ("Mountain of the Sun") at an altitude of around 3,000 metres (figures are not standardised), the third highest mountain on the Arabian Peninsula. The Wahiba sand desert in the province of Ash Sharqiyah to the south is also impressive. In the east, the route reaches the Arabian Sea and follows the coastal road along gentle sandy beaches and steep cliffs to Cap Al Hadd. Our route then follows the Gulf of Oman, finally travelling through the hilly inland.
Author: Mareike Röwenkamp
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GPS data Oman
