It takes a special kind of talent to get caught in the current of a river that has no water. But driving up a dry wadi full of flash flood-polished rocks deep in the Hajar Mountains – in a Toyota sorta-SUV that beyond having four wheels bears no useful resemblance to a 4-wheel-drive vehicle – is like steering through a half-mile trough of golf balls. You fight to maintain momentum in the inertia-less current of stones. All I could think was: They probably don't have this kind of problem in Dubai. I stopped the car – which is to say I caught the current – and looked around. The dry riverbed cut across the shoulder of a crusty, 10,000-foot upended shelf of a mountain. On the east bank, a lush 3-D shag of tropical date palms concealed the lowest quarter of an ancient rock-wall city that seemed more likely to be populated by archeologists than by modern-day residents (for whom, apparently, I was the afternoon's curiosity). Nope. They don't have this kind of anything in Dubai. The Sultanate of Oman, the cap to the southeastern end of the Arabian Peninsula, is years behind glitzy, fabricated Dubai and its ambitious neighbors in terms of opening the fortress doors to tourism. It is unknown to most atlas-phobic Americans. But in a plot twist worthy of a Bedouin campfire tale, Oman has much more than its neighbors to see: toothy, towering mountains; old-world forts by the hundreds; postcard-perfect beaches; oases of Arabian culture untouched by oil wells; and mosques of astonishing size and beauty. Coupled with a population friendly to Westerners (most of which practices a particularly tolerant, non-violent branch of Islam) and a few modern comforts, Oman offers an accessible, widely unspoiled slice of Arabia for casual travelers and destination trophy-hunters alike. Coasting the Gulf Including the non-contiguous bits on the Musandam Peninsula (isolated by the United Arab Emirates), Oman is about the size of Kansas, far too big and diverse to capture in a five-day trip. Instead, we planned a 600-mile loop through the country's northeast end, including the picturesque Batinah Coast, the bustling, expanding capital city of Muscat, and the country's interior, the domain of Bedouin tribes, palm oases villages and a portion of the infamous expanse of desert known as the Empty Quarter. After crossing the mountains and the border from Dubai, we turned right at the Gulf of Oman and followed the parade of seaside towns that line the Batinah Coast. Because of its position on the route between Africa, India and the rest of Asia, and as gatekeeper to the Strait of Hormuz (and the riches of what was once Persia), Oman was the trade capital of the East for more than a thousand years. Traders here dealt not just in gold, textiles and slaves, but in the local copper and frankincense that made Omanis staggeringly wealthy 4,000 years before anyone thought of a profitable use for all that oil under the sand. Most of the trade flowed by sea, much of it through the city of Sohar (hometown, some say, of the fictional Sinbad the Sailor – although a few other towns make the same claim). We spent the night at the only local lodging listed on Oman's official tourism Web site, the Sohar Beach Hotel, a name that didn't begin to explain why we were checking into a scale model of a Portuguese fortress, complete with whitewashed stucco, arched entryways and squat, square-toothed battlements. In search of a late dinner, we found Sohar's business district not just open, but bustling with young men, women and couples in traditional garb, chatting, strolling, holding hands, laughing and telling stories that seemed to require sweeping hand choreography. Almost everyone we passed smiled, nodded or offered a response to my weak attempts at the Arabic greeting “As-salaam alaykum.” We had read enough not to expect hostility toward Westerners –75 percent of Omanis are Ibadhi Muslim, a sect that formed during Mohammad's lifetime and that emphasizes nonviolence and religious tolerance. But we didn't expect the level of hospitality – or that we might be considered a curiosity. (Travelers from the United States are rare, if only because our country is more than a little phobic about Islamic states.) Visitors from anywhere are a curiosity for some Omanis. Like most of its Arabian neighbors, Oman spent most of the last century closed off to the world. Even after the current monarch, Sultan Qaboos bin Said, deposed his own xenophobic, despotic father in 1970, it was more than a decade before outsiders could visit Oman without having a resident vouch for them. The first tour group didn't arrive until 1983; it took until 2004 to open a Ministry of Tourism. After checking out of our miniature fort the next morning, we came to Sohar Fort (the town's main attraction and, apparently, the life-size version of our hotel), a restored castle and a reminders that Oman spent almost a century under Portuguese rule before kicking them out in 1650. Oman has between 500 and 1,000 forts and castles (give or take) – remnants of millennia of tribal warfare – including many that have been (or will be) restored. Highlights of this one include a museum that focuses on military history and trade with Asia and Africa; the view from atop the four-story hilltop garrison; and a hatch-like door to a 15-mile escape tunnel ending near the town of Barka. The only thing missing: other visitors. We had the place to ourselves. Afterward, we settled into the local rhythm, browsing the market for supplies, exploring a new “heritage crafts” complex and marveling as a bobbing line of adolescent school girls in matching abayas (robes) and lihafs (head scarves) filed past us into the local Pizza Hut. Modern times in Muscat A detour off the road from Sohar to Muscat landed us in Rustaq, a rural oasis village in the Hajar foothills. The town's historic center is a towering, labyrinthine fortress (again, all to ourselves) that is so well-restored it invited vivid Foreign Legion fantasies; and an ancient traditional souk (marketplace) that, unfortunately, we had completely to ourselves – it was the wrong day. Driving narrow alleys lined with mud-brick homes built by the ancestors of the current residents, it was clear that in some corners of Oman, the line between ancient traditions and everyday life is almost non-existent. Muscat, however, is not one of those corners. The capital city is the showcase for Oman's entry into modern times -- an era that, frankly, is barely older than disco music. When Sultan Qaboos took over in 1970 with the help of the British (sending his father off to an enforced retirement in England), the country had a proud history and a rich culture, but just one missionary hospital, three boys' schools, no police and less than 4 miles of paved roads. Unlike his father, the new sultan used oil revenues for a massive modernization plan, first focusing on health care, education and infrastructure. The first university opened in 1986, and by 1999 there were 1,100 schools, dozens of modern hospitals and clinics and 5,000 miles of road that seemed to me better paved, better lit and better maintained than any in California. Greater Muscat stretches for miles, a patchwork of neighborhoods and business districts, but the actual Walled City of Muscat (and its next-door twin, Muttrah) is a comparatively small enclave wedged between sheer coastal peaks and the Gulf of Oman. The greater city is easy to survey, if only because there are no skyscrapers to mar the mountainous backdrop. Where Oman's neighbors sprout record-setting concrete-and-glass monstrosities to fuel tourism, Sultan Qaboos forbids anything taller than six floors, excluding minarets. (Word has it he secretly ventures out into Muscat streets on occasion to ensure enforcement.) After a tour of the Grand Mosque in Muscat (home of the world's largest rug) and a lazy walk up the beachside corniche, we drove to the peak-enclosed harbor district of Muttrah. The souk – a sprawling, covered warren of stalls layered with goods from T-shirts to silver khanjars (the ornate L-shaped dagger that is the national symbol), and passages thick with a haze of frankincense, cardamom, curry and the smell of new leather -- is also the best place to find halwa, a nationally beloved gelatinous confection made from sugar, clarified butter, wheat and saffron. The popular marketplace caters to visitors but is still a place where locals come to congregate, haggle and resupply. __
