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A PORTRAIT FROM SIDAB
“We sit in Humeid’s little incense-smoked majlis, picking at grapes, melons and toffee�/p>

Sidab is usually just a blur as you rush between the palace after the corniche and the al Bustan village, and the road that now ploughs through it gives nothing away. And while it might now merge seamlessly into a modern, urban vision of the capital, it was originally just a little fishing village, like a lot of old quarters of the capital. Humeid Saif Salim al Dhamri has been fishing here since he was 12, when his father first started taking him out to sea. “There were a lot more fish in those days,�he says, “and a lot fewer fishermen.�That ratio has turned topsy-turvy in time, which means that Humeid’s earnings rise and fall with the tide. Nothing is certain anymore. “There are so many young ones coming out to sea,�he says, “they have the strength, but old hands like me have the experience.� He isn’t quite sure of his age, but estimates that he is somewhere above 70, and swears he will go on fishing as long as he’s able. Over the years, he has seen all kinds of choppy waters. “About three years ago, a group of us went far out to sea and the weather turned bad. “We lost four boats that day in the storm �just found bits and pieces floating around much later. We never found our friends. I never forget what the sea can do.� “The problem with most people who get into trouble is that they overestimate their abilities, and underestimate the power of the ocean. You have to know when to turn back.� As a way out of the competition problem, and so as not to exhaust their supply, boatmen in Sidab focus their efforts on different kinds of fish, agreeing to stick to their chosen type.

Usually, this kind of division is done with smaller fish, in shallow waters. Humeid himself has never been able to break out of the small-scale business. He hasn’t the time or the money to organise more boats under him, or to invest in a refrigerated truck that can deliver his catch to better markets, like the hotels in Muscat, or the so-called ‘fish factories�that sort through the catch and package them for export. Instead, he has taught three of his five children the only thing he knows. “I am uneducated, so the best thing I ever did was to become a fisherman.� One of his sons, a grown man, agrees. “Being a fisherman in Sidab is better than working for a company and earning RO100. We bring in up to RO400 a month now, and we can work together, as a family.�And there’s even more to it. His daughter, Wafa, works at a local initiative where the women of Sidab sew products and sell them: bags, cushion covers and knick-knacks, bringing in money to a community and providing opportunities for women who would have otherwise stayed at home. Humeid doesn’t have much, but he insists it is enough, and
we sit in his little incense-smoked majlis, picking at grapes, melons and toffee under pictures of a son standing among trees in Dhofar, and Humeid himself when he was young. In the courtyard, women chatter, clothes dry. A fishing net that needs mending lies spread on the floor. Everything in Sidab is as it should be.