To Oman!

Pt. 4 of the Hajj Series

Oman. Photo by Hongbin on Unsplash

At the seminar, Sheikh asked for forgiveness from Allah The Almighty. He glorified Allah. He thanked Him that he had given us, His slaves here on Earth, permission to visit the Holy Lands and His House on Earth, the Ka'aba. "There are some of us who have all the money in the world and yet they have not traveled to the Holy Lands for Hajj. We have brothers and sisters who work and reside in Saudi Arabia and they have not yet taken the journey of Hajj. They are not yet permitted. They are not yet allowed. We have been permitted and allowed. He gave us the power to answer His Call. All is as Allah wills it."

I felt the pride of being Muslim swelling in me. My chest broadened a bit, and my chin raised a little. Here was a man from whom you could emanate the pride of being in the Faith, something that has been kept frozen in me for so long. A sheikh is a preacher, after all. Father told me this Sheikh was one of the best in the country. 

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Mother was frantic. Our sheikh had called her, and it was not good news. She was sympathetic—"Oh"no! Of course! In Shaa Allah!"—but redirected her frustration and anxiety towards me.

I, and one other Jamaa (congregation) of our Sheikh, were to leave the group temporarily, fly to Saudi Arabia three days ahead of our original schedule, and rejoin once we were all in Medina, KSA. "The whole point of you going is to help us with our travels!" mother said. Surely not all, I thought, but I stayed quiet and prepared myself for the mishap. 

The sheikh had arranged that we join another congregation. We were to meet at the international terminal of Manila Airport. Instead of the original direct flight, we were to stop by Oman and spend a day there before flying in Saudi Arabia. 

We later found out that there were sixty-nine Jamaa. I was the 67th to be registered. I was also the last to officially get on the original schedule. The last two members were a retired policeman and a woman (in her 50s) who had just traveled to the Philippines to embark on the Hajj. Sheikh in his judgement decided it was unsightly for a man and woman with no relation to travel together. He decided that I would change schedules with the woman and I would help escort the policeman. Respect for the elder. I was to be customer service.

"Hajj is the ultimate sacrifice" is what a Hadji (a Muslim who participated in the Hajj) always says. Mother tried and failed to convince herself that this was one of them. She kept bickering until just before my flight to Manila. She insisted that I constantly call. 

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The retired policeman and I woke up on the airport floor. It was still seven hours before our next flight. Knowing that it would be both time and money-consuming to check in a hotel, everybody agreed that we waited for the next flight in the airport. This was The Journey. We didn't want to miss our chance to Saudi Arabia, for Hajj, because of traffic. 

Sheikh called me three hours before our next flight. We were to rush to the international terminal where our travel agent was waiting. We ran to the airport buses that would drive us to the terminal. All the while I was thinking this could all have been instructed to us properly and days before.

I almost flew into a rage when, upon meeting the travel agent, Sheikh called again, informing us to go online, go to e-travel-dot-gov-ph, and create a travel declaration. At that point, high on stress, I dropped my bag, pulled out my medicine box, and dry swallowed a Lexapro. I didn't even care about the time. I still needed to save face. I needed to look calm in front of my policeman companion who, having almost never traveled in his life, confused at 60 years old, clung to me in desperation like a lost kitten. 

A tendril of relief came when we breezed through the immigration. A fun fact: a Muslim with a Hajj visa will almost never be detained by immigration. We can even carry dried food. 

The congregation we were to meet was easy to spot. They were the 50 or so people dressed all in white. Flowing white hijabs, flowing white thobes. Tasbeehs coiled on their wrists, talking in a language too foreign-sounding to be considered Filipino. There was a group of old women checking and rechecking the contents of their luggage. There were men sitting on the carpeted floor, Indian-style, outsmarting each other in language of how great Allah can be. I even saw one vaping. 

I know for sure that no non-Muslim that night attempted to enter the restrooms. The congregation by the dozen kept coming in and out, wet as fishes, performing ablution and praying at wherever spot they could find. The hallway to the toilet was slippery with west dust and shoe prints until the management instructed a janitor to be permanently on standby, mopping the floor every 15 minutes. 

What must we have looked like to the average Filipino? Muslim Filipinos are only 6% of a population of over 100 million. The only three events when we are seen by the thousands are the two Eids and when traveling for Hajj. I remember my Islamic teacher preaching with pride how we, the Muslim Filipinos, were never totally influenced by the Spaniards. Some watched us with mild interest or mild neglect. A few eyes were disgusted by our not-so-westernized actions, sprawling on the floor, chanting Du'as, dresses dripping wet with ablution, and narrating the Qur'an out loud. Philippine airports are not designed for Muslims.

The congregation was from Palawan. They must have been of the Molbog Tribe, the only Muslim group who reside in the south of the island. Their language was not our own, so we spoke in Filipino and asked where their sheikh was. They pointed to a dignified-looking man at the very corner of the hall who was meditating with his tasbeeh. As we approached, he reached out his hand. "You must be the two Jamaa of Sheikh J," he said, vigorously shaking our hands. "We'll go to Oman first and spend a day there. We'll have a little tour of Muscat. It's all been arranged."

☼

The flight was approximately three movies long. Apart from us, who mostly wore white, there were a few Arabs scattered across the seats. Omanis, I supposed, going home. And some were Filipino Christians, perhaps overseas Filipino workers, going back to work from their vacations. 

We were such a rowdy crowd with absolutely no respect for the fasten-seatbelt sign. The Jamaa kept standing and sitting, going to the restroom and back, listless and restless, listening to harassed flight attendants with deaf ears. The Arabs were oddly calm, as if they had known all along that ours was a different etiquette. The highlight of the flight was when, during a turbulence, an old lady—it must have been her first time to fly— vomited on the floor. I kept to myself, concentrating entirely on The Incredibles 2 and Interstellar. My policeman companion was asleep the entire trip.

☼

I wondered to myself how many stadiums could have fit inside Muscat airport. It almost felt immeasurable. Quiet, too, like a graveyard at noon. It was too big for a small population, and that fact made it very breathtaking. 

The tall Omani in a perfectly steamed thobe led us to their immigration. We marched through 6 or 7 walkalators and I mentally counted a 17-minute walk. The Omani gentleman pulled our passport in his deep pocket, bound by a band, announced our names, and gave each of us our documents. We passed through their immigration. Some of the Jamaa have never experienced walking past a metal detector. They received the shock of their lives when the metal bar rang with high notes and security closed in on them. Coins, belts, and even the buckle designs on shoes were detected. Even, I guess, some dentures with metals in them? Because at one point, an Omani guard asked one in the group to open their mouth. 

Photo by Austin Curtis on Unsplash

They had walked to the entrance of the airport where two buses awaited. For brunch, we dined at a restaurant as big as a small mall. It was a barracks of sorts, made of clay, fully air-conditioned. We ate lamb for the first time, and pomegranates.

Rozna Restaurant

At noon they drove us to the biggest mosque in Muscat, designed to house a congregation by the thousands, where, at 30 or 40 men, we barely reached the mosque walls. At late afternoon, they guided us to the port where government buildings that looked like mosques were located. There we saw mega-yachts as big as a small islands. 

Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque

Oman was big and quiet, almost brusque with its beauty. I did not see a dog or cat on its wide streets. The only animal in abundance was crow, which filled the empty Omani skies with their sinister squawks. Population 6 million, with only roughly 2 million Omanis, according to our tour guide who barely spoke English. It is an arid land with barren mountains and beautiful towns scattered far apart from each other. I once read that Oman willfully avoids constructing skyscrapers, unlike its Arab counterparts. No building was more than 5 stories, as far as I could see. And I very rarely saw a person, much less a group, walking. 

As the sun set, we headed back to the airport for our final flight to Saudi Arabia. By then, the tour guide had already befriended me. He must have been drawn to me, as I was one of the youngest looking in the bunch. He told me he was a marine biologist. An odd choice, I thought, as he resided in a desert of a country. But that was a stupid thought of mine.

A curious thing happened when he asked what we would do at Hajj. Here I thought that every Arab person knew more about Islam than us islanders. Yet here he was, genuinely curious and blissfully ignorant. 

"Do you plan to go someday?" He said "no" very coolly. I was dumbstruck. A person who could afford was required to undergo Hajj. Here was a Muslim man, presumably rich (age 22 with a Patek Philippe watch) who didn't even hesitate with his answer. 

Every Jamaa in the flight was tired from the tour. We all looked somber. I think I knew why. This was a group who had just, for the first time, witnessed the wonders of the world. We must have been reflecting on our quaint lives back home. Oman was big, wide and abundant. However, it was relatively obscure for us. I know an average Filipino wouldn’t think about Oman when they planned for vacations. It wasn't much of a melting pot of cultures.

But Saudi Arabia was. Were we even prepared for the most famous Arab country?

Thank you for reading!

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Notes:

1. Most photos mine, some I found online.

2. Photos of Rozna Restaurant from Erin’s Hotspot.