The half remembered stories of the mountain tribes. Written and photographed by Pinaki Chakravarty
We are 2,000m high on the second steepest dirt track in Oman, driving through cloud and rain, with visibility down to the next 15m. Below and behind us is Wadi Bani Auf, and it was all blazing heat and white light as we had driven through it an hour ago. But now, in mid-August, the northern slopes of the mountain, from the
villages at the bottom to the isolated settlements on the top, were drenched in the kind of rain usually associated with Dhofar, 1,000km south.
We made our way up, one slushy turn after the other, the road little more than slippery mud and loose stone. Over the next hour, as we climbed to the peak at Sharaf al Alamayn, the clouds moved in even thicker. And all that rain over one side of the mountain trickled down a million ridges of rock, rushed through a handful of gorges and, in a grand sweeping finale, emptied tonnes of water into one wadi – Bani Auf.
There is one lesson Wadi Bani Auf teaches visitors a few times a year, and it is this: when you feel the first splatter of rain on your cheek, run. Snake Gorge, a knife edged sub-canyon that tourists flock to, has already claimed many, for once you start jumping down its pools there is no way out but forward, and the steep sides offer no escape from a torrent of rain water. By three in the afternoon it had started to turn dark over the mountains, and by the time we returned to the bottom, Auf was underwater, the gravel road gone, and it would take hours of driving bumper-deep through connecting wadis to get us out, through Wadi Gaffar and eventually Wadi Sahtan to Rustaq. It is not something you want to do.
We were up in the mountain settlement of Haat, tucked away in a dead-end dirt track 1,100m high when we heard the first clap of thunder. The wind kicked up and the flies moved in, but we hadn’t made the connection. Instead, we ate dates and were told the story of this village and the few hundred baskets it makes.
Baskets and necessity in Haat
Haat itself seemed deserted when we got there, apart from a few shawawi tribesmen on its fringes, heading out with their goats. Most able-bodied men were in the mosque, and we waited nearby till they trickled out. Salim bin Said bin Nasser al Hatali was the first to greet us, with his old wizened face, complete with a mostly toothless smile that he broke into regularly over the next hour. Salim has been earning his income through his agriculture and a by-product of the dates – the fronds of the tree. These, he explained, were plucked out, laid across each other at right angles and woven together to make baskets. He called the finished product khasaf, or darf, which translates into ‘envelope.’ They were huge, longer than wide, and their sides ran parallel, not curved, and would hold up to 20kg
of dates. Salim sells each at one rial a piece, and will make a
couple of pre-Eid trips a year and sell up to 200 baskets in markets across Rustaq, Bahla and Seeb. He’ll pay RO5 as petrol money to get a ride on a passing pickup there, and return with halwa, fish, meat and bread.
Who taught him how to weave? “Necessity,” he says. “I have nothing else.” At 60, Salim gets RO40 a month from the Ministry of Social Affairs, and asks for only one thing more: “My health.” Haat has nothing: its 600-700 strong population doesn’t warrant a school, or hospital.
How everyone forgot Bilad Seet
Rashid bin Masood bin Saleh al Abri could have been a soothsayer with his kohl-lined eyes and thin smile, but has been a farmer and a businessman instead, living in the secluded village of Bilad Seet, wedged in a pocket of mountain. Over the last 57 years of his life he has seen enormous change take place, from the dirt road that now connects it to the outside world to the electric lines that mean you can sit in his majlis in air-conditioned comfort, your back to a wall that zigzags its way over the contours of the mountain. Nothing is straight in this 80 year old house.
In the old days, you would have to walk with your donkey to Al Hamra, on the other side of the mountain. Just look out of Rashid’s window to see how mammoth a task that is: hundreds of metres of sheer mountain cliff greet you. These are slopes so steep even the road now clawing into the mountain had to be patched with
concrete around its worst curves – and which still are best survived on low ratio 4WD. That walk would usually start at 4am and end in Al Hamra at half-past two in the afternoon. Keep in mind that
the mountain tribes can easily do double the distance a typical city slicker could hope to live through, or the same distance in half the time, or less.
Most of the 1,000-1,500 people – al Abris, Dohlis and Miyahis – who live here tend their fields, depending on water that flows through the year, channelled through an ancient falaj system that is still the life of the village. “There are nine eyes of water,” reveals Rashid, referring to the sources that empty into the irrigation channels. This is too large a settlement to depend on honey, unlike the Aufis of Gaffar. “Only one person used to breed bees, but he passed away – and now there is no more honey.”
Being an al Abri means that Rashid traces his lineage to Al Hamra, over the other side of the mountain, although the tribe can now be found in Misfat al Abriyeen, Wadi Sahtan and the slopes
in-between. “People get tempted,” starts Rashid. “My ancestors from Dohli came to Bilad Seet 200 years ago to visit relatives – and stayed. Coincidentally, it is in such a way that the village got its name. It was originally called Sana’a, for the earliest settlers came from Yemen. A long time ago someone came to this village, but he forgot why he was here, or that he had to return – and so settled down. ‘Bilad’ means settlement, and ‘Seet’ comes from ‘Niseet,’ which means ‘to forget.’
Team Bilad Seet
Bilad Seet might be little more than a bump in the mountains, accessible over hours of dirt track, but it does sport its own football pitch, perhaps the only patch flattened for as far as the eye can see. Even the village doesn’t have so much blank space. It is here that you will find Ahmed bin Hamood bin Saleh al Dohli, a 17 year old defender in a purple jersey, who hopes to go to Muscat after he
finishes school to become a professional football player. Till then, he makes do with the mountain: running four kilometres a day over its slopes, playing in the evenings on the pitch, under distant peaks. Bilad Seet sports around 30 young players, and the size of the teams that play here each day is determined by how many young men turn up in the evening. Teams from Rustaq and Wadi Sahtan come here to play sometimes, and everyone pays his own expenses when travelling for a tournament, or training.
Team Bilad Seet got their field 12 years ago, after asking the
local road department to level it out between the rock walls. They’ve beaten Tikha twice, but they’ve got a long way to go: they’re ranked second last in the mountains, after Tikha. In order of superiority, the teams that play each other include Rustaq, Al Hamra, Wadi Sahtan and then the last two – which are also the only ones which sport single teams.
Ahmed al Dohli dreams big, but most players from the mountain villages never go beyond the regional fields, like Zaher Abdullah Zaher al Dohli, who dribbles through the field alongside Ahmed, when he’s off from his naval posting in Musandam.
Dogs and silence at Hagar
Hagar is little more than a few stone houses that lie huddled against the rock of mountain walls. It is also the least welcoming of all the jebel villages, and for good reason: this little settlement lies at the mouth of a gorgeous crack in the rock, its sides smoothed and
polished by water over thousands of years. You will find that water in the still pools around the corner, completely hidden from view, channelled quietly into the falaj and whisked away to date gardens that are fenced off. Hagar might be barely a few families strong, but it sits on abundant natural resources and the only contact we had with an inhabitant was when he warned us against getting into the water. No greetings, no coffee, no dates.
Hagar also has the nasty habit of flooding, as we discovered when we returned on our way back. Those pools of water, calm hours ago, were gone. Instead, a brown muddy torrent gushed out, flooding the entrance to the village and the depression you have to drive through to get to Bilad Seet. We had to get in up to the grill of the Land Cruiser, and barely made it through.
Misnomers at Sharaf al Alamayn
You will get to the peak of the mountain at Sharaf al Alamayn. There is no village here, just a bit of flat ground before the road falls down on either side: north to Haat, Bilad Seet, Wadi Bani Auf and Wadi Sahtan, south to Al Hamra and Nizwa. This is one of the few motorable passes across the Hajar, and it is in the process of being laid over with tarmac. At this point, the southern slope is all asphalt, while the northern one is an extremely steep dirt track that forks at the bottom into Sahtan and Bani Auf, both gravel too.
From the top, where you can park your car, the view north is
fantastic, and you’ll soon have a resthouse here, under construction now. The signboard here says ‘Birkat Sharaf,’ but it is wrong, for Birkat is many peaks away, a six-hour hike from Misfat al Abriyeen, through Aqabat al Hamra, and an 11-hour hike above Wadi Sahtan on the other side. Those are big names, destinations in themselves that deserve separate trips. Over their slopes you will discover the charm of juniper trees, stone rooms built for travellers and the mountain tribes who will host you.
Kilometre readings
Zero your odometer at Zamm, where we ended our exploration of Wadi Bani Auf in last month’s issue. This is also the entrance to Snake Gorge, at 18.2km from the motel at the mouth of the wadi, where it meets the concrete road between Al Awabi and Rustaq.
2.7km Turn left to Haat, Bilad Seet. Right takes you to Wadi Sahtan (you can use this when Bani
Auf floods) 3.3km Exit of Snake Gorge, on your left 5.2km Turn right to Bilad Seet
Zero your odometer when you return to this junction from Bilad Seet, and turn right towards Haat to continue up the mountain
0km Junction 1.9km Al Hagar 5km Haat 15.4km Sharaf al Alamayn
GPS, UTM
Entrance of Snake Gorge
40 Q 0539340, 2566973
Elevation 814m
Turn off to Bilad Seet
40 Q 0540066, 2566181
Elevation 930m
Bilad Seet
40 Q 0539683, 2564914
Elevation 985m
Hagar
40 Q 0540363, 2564992
Elevation 919m
Haat
40 Q 0542032, 2564071
Elevation 1,104m
Sharaf al Alamayn
40 Q 0542494, 2562096
Elevation 2,011m
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