I am working in Oman (just east of Saudi Arabia) and at the moment I am in the strangest place possible – a Radisson hotel. I am sequestered in this white cube of Western architecture because, as everyone knows, thinking critically is one thing, but vocalizing criticism is a sure sign that you’re over-worked. Therefore, I needed a break. But a Radisson is about as Omani as a Bush is freedom-loving, so as far as clearing my head and experiencing the peaceful, proud and friendly Muslim culture, I might as well join the Oil Management Program that’s masquerading as a Liberation just three hundred kilometers north.
I’ve been in Oman for 32 days. No, not four and a half weeks – 32 days. When we work, we work straight-through. What day it is, what week it is or what month all cease to matter – unless you get lippy. It’s a heads-down, time-for-money march that has its winter equivalent when I make withdrawals and exchange time – ultimately the more valuable of the two – for money. “Mountain safety for seismic exploration” is our official euphemism.
We are ScreeWalkers. We go through expensive boots like a locust killer does pesticide. Mile after mile, we shepherd those who would otherwise hurt themselves through some incredibly hazardous, 35-degree terrain. (By the way, I stumbled across this incredibly lush oasis in the middle of the Maradi desert the other day. A few of us are throwing in some money to build condos for chlorine-pool-preferring fat people. Wanna throw in?)
Check out the CIA World Fact Book – good for more than just hyperbolic oxymorons – and you’ll read the following: “Oman, natural bodies of water, 0.” In a league with that nerds-in-hell-“hot-enough-for-ya?”-FarSide cartoon, it was 46C in the shade the other day. They say it’ll break +50 before we ship out at the end of June.
A few years ago I made the mistake of going to Penticton – center of the Canadian Sahara – in July. While Phil and Daryl did their best to acquire cancer and phone numbers on the beach, I sat under a big tree, kept my shirt on and read a book. In a moment of comedic genius, Phil made the connection between myself and Powder, the okay-but-not-great movie about an albino kid raised in a basement who had special mental powers and a strong aversion to sunlight. For reasons other than the ones I choose to believe, the name stuck.
So how does Powder do in the desert? I sweat like a bastard. Despite working out and eating some bacon everyday, I’ve lost nine pounds. My work pants – which really, for a cool experiment, aren’t going to be washed until July 1st – are so encrusted with salt they can almost stand on their own.
But the human body – even an albino one – is truly an amazing thing. When we first arrived, my metabolism felt as challenged as Dubya in front of a microphone. In contrast, my ability to adapt is well-developed, and I am shocked to say that +40C has become a reasonable scree-walking temperature. And 25C at 6am actually feels cool. My also-Canadian friend Greg has taken to wearing a toque each morning “until it warms up.”
Once out on the jebel – the Arabic word for “pile of crumbling rock with barely a cliffband at the top” – the intensity of the heat is offset by the beauty of a stark unhuman landscape. At first squint, the Maradi desert looks lifeless. Like Saskatchewan in the winter, it’s beautiful in a Zen Nothingness-kind of way. But there is life out there. Camels are a slow-rambling dime a dozen, and small herds of hamals – a donkey that looks identical to Eddie Murphy’s incarnation in Shrek – dart left and right with fish-like synchronicity. Sidewinders leave perfect, continuous wave markings in the sand. And vultures make a daily habit of circling over the head of the Dehydrated Whiteman.
Despite my lack of melotonin, it is truly good to be here. I’ve learned how to tie a soaked shemag – the Arab headscarf so featured on CNNd-of-the-World-News – and to treasure the slow drip down the back of my neck. I can properly pronounce as salaam aleikum, and my total Arabic word count is around twenty. In 30 days of working with Omanis, I’ve developed a still-largely-ignorant, but strong respect for the Muslim culture. Social mores seem based on pride and respect, the right way and the wrong way – a pattern of thought that I am partial to.
So, although I see more and more why my Dad should write Business Practices That Suck, in calm moments I realize how fortunate I am to be here. Perhaps I can let go of some business-practice idealism in exchange for the experience… and a phat day-rate.
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Why is it that you have to take a shot at the US every chance you get…I like your attitude in other areas such as work and fitness and was enjoying reading some of your other posts until I came across your numerous insults to my country…they get pretty old quick, especially coming from a Canadian…what the hell does Canada do for the world? … furthermore if the US is in Iraq for the oil, everyday citizens sure aren’t getting any of it cause we’re paying ever greater record prices
Hi, Mike. Thanks for your comment. My attitude for work, fitness and foreign policy is the same: anti-silliness.
US foreign policy is what I was targeting, not its citizens. Some of my closest friends are American, including my wife. And most of them agree with me.