It’s 6pm on a Friday night in Salalah and a cavalcade of white Toyota Land Cruisers is looking for vacant parking spots along the road that traces Al Haffa beach – a stretch of powdery gold sand forming a bookmark between the city and the sea. In between the parked cars, families sit on foldable chairs, the men cloaked in their dishdasha pouring herb-infused tea, while the children play in the sand. The faint scent of frankincense floats from nearby Al Haffa souk, while the sun slides behind a thin veil of rippled cloud and sea mist.
You can learn a lot about a country and its people by its beach scenes. Al Haffa is no Ipanema. And yet despite cultural differences, the beach presents common ground, a place to relax, to regard, to be among friends and strangers alike, punctuated by the metronomic susurration of the ocean. No one leaves without grains of sand embedded between their toes.
My base for the week is the Al Baleed Resort Salalah by Anantara, which was the first true luxury villa resort to open in Salalah. The five-star hotel has beautifully appointed villas with well-manicured, well-watered gardens keeping the march of the desert at bay. It also has its own 250-metre private beach, as well as a freshwater lagoon and the obligatory infinity pool. Visit here between the months of June and September and you’d think any talk of desert were the ramblings of a mad man. The city and region flip into something almost surreal for Arabia: cool mists and lush, verdant mountains striated with waterfalls.
However tempting it is to assume a horizontal position in a resort like Al Baleed, the Dhofar region’s pull is its landscape, and it demands exploration. The Toyota Land Cruiser is ubiquitous in the Middle East, and, while its undefeatable carapace gives licence to roam southern Oman, much of the mountainous coastal areas both east and west of Salalah, as well as the rolling green hills further inland, are better enjoyed as passenger to government-accredited guides.
I deferred responsibility to Hamid, masterful traffic weaver and passionate recanter of Oman’s history, and he duly revealed a geography that inspired wonder and awe. A short drive east of the city brought us to Jabal Samhan, a vast nature reserve featuring soaring cliffs, a network of canyons and high-altitude plateaus rising up to over 2,100 metres above sea level, providing the perfect perch to regard the Arabian Sea.
The reserve is one of the last strongholds for the critically endangered Arabian leopard. And the region is also home to Boswellia sacra trees, the source of high-quality frankincense, which thrive in the rugged slopes and highlands of the Dhofar Mountains. The frankincense that comes from Jabal Samhan is called Hojari or “white tears” and is the most prized form you can find.
It was up in Jabal Samhan’s rolling hills that I met with Noorulhuda Al Mandhari, a brilliant young Omani entrepreneur and founder of Ghudu, a community tourism project. Passionate about opening up southern Oman and the Dhofar region to a wider audience, she hosted a traditional lunch under the shade of a tree, manned by local shepherds and farmers who were able to share cultural and culinary customs, including the singing of old love songs before we all tucked into tender strips of goat and camel atop a bed of steaming rice.
The conversation quickly turned from guttural sounds of pleasure at every mouthful to lamenting the downfall of Manchester United. It turns out one of the singers played for the national volleyball team, too. Food and sport, the great levellers.
After lunch, we drove to Wadi Darbat, one of the biggest tourist attractions during the khareef. Here, the hillsides are a canvas of rich green shades, punctuated by turquoise pools fed by the monsoon. For Muscat residents more used to arid desert temperatures in the 40s, it must seem like a different world.
Just as we were leaving, Hamid pointed towards the far bank of a river carving its perpendicular path at the foot of some hills. Out of the undergrowth appeared some camels. Not one, or five, but about 500. We had chanced upon the annual camel migration, or khatla.
Families of herders from the east and west plains group together to make the trek from the coastal lowlands to the upland valleys of the Qara, Qamar and Samhan ranges, stopping at the wadis to rest and take on water. It’s a big event, so much so that it has attracted “camel influencers”, much to the annoyance of the herdsmen. Camels are a big deal in Oman, cherished much like the English with their dogs – the only difference being the camel’s utility with respect to being a source of milk and very lean meat.
The west of Salalah is all about the coastline, which unravels into a dramatic mountainscape that lurches abruptly into the Arabian Sea. On Route 49, the scenery quickly shifts from the city’s flat plains to a wilder and more untamed coastline, with plenty of dusty switchbacks and hair-raising descents leading to a multitude of stunning beaches.
The most popular is Mughsail, a long elliptical bed of golden sand bracketed on one side by some impressive blowholes at Marneef cave, but travel a little further to Al Fazayah Beach and you’ll be rewarded with a natural amphitheatre of sheer cliffs and turquoise waters. We were the only people there.
I wondered whether or not Oman is missing a trick by not turning the Dhofar region into an adventure sports destination? The cliffs would be a playground for adrenalin junkies; the on-shore winds perfect for windsurfers; the endless hiking and cycling opportunities…
Perhaps one day the infrastructure to accommodate such activities will be built, but for now, tourism is moving at a pace that Oman is comfortable with, blending luxury stays with cultural authenticity and eco-centrism. Its people are effusive with pride in their heritage, and as custodians of an ever-changing landscape, they do a wonderful job bringing it to life.
Ryan Thompson is a UK-based menswear and lifestyle writer, whose work has appeared in, among others, the Financial Times, Mr Porter, The Rake and Ape to Gentleman
