Explore the enchanting Dhofar region with women-led tour group Ghudu
The Middle Eastern country is more than just desert. And going up into the mountains in autumn means you can see a side of the country – and its historic culture – not many people have experienced.
Without an instrument in sight, or lyrics to read from, Arif adjusts himself for a moment before bursting into song. The young herder can usually be found in the rugged outback of the Dhofari Mountains with his 30 camels and 300 cows, but today he is in his shepherd’s hut, and I have the privilege of being hosted by him. First, I am offered tea, then Arif tells me about his life out in the mountains. Finally, he sits up straight and closes his eyes before performing the haunting lament of the nana, an art form that has been passed down since time immemorial.
I’d not been to Oman, or indeed the Gulf. I’d seen plenty of Instagram photos of influencers posting luxurious dinners or yacht rides in Dubai, but the Sultanate of Oman, lying on the southernmost end of the Arabian peninsula, looked as though it would offer something very different, holding on to its culture. And every Omani I meet during my tour, from the coastal capital of Muscat to the fortified city of Nizwa, tells me how proud they are of their traditions, and the area near the city of Salalah, isolated between the sand and the sea, is perhaps the proudest region of them all.
To get there, many Omanis tackle the 12-hour drive south from Muscat in one day, but I opt for a 90-minute flight. Dhofar lays claim to four different ecological zones, from a coastline and foothills to verdant mountains and the desert. It hosts a diversity of indigenous languages and cultures that bind the people of this region, and has a history so old it pre-dates Islam and the spread of Arabic. Arif is singing in one of these languages – Jabbali, or Shehri as it is also known, both meaning “mountain”.
My visit has been organised by Ghudu, a small, sustainable Omani tour operator offering interesting experiences in the Dhofar area. Without such a service, it would be impossible as a tourist to sensitively explore this beautiful region, where many communities still rely on subsistence farming. They are immensely private, with women rarely leaving the home and men going about their work in tribal clothes with elaborate head wraps, rifles and decorative daggers known as khanjars.
Dhofar and its port city of Salalah were once at the centre of a bustling frankincense trade, but in the 1960s these foothills were the scene for guerrilla fighting in Oman’s 12-year civil war. The ancient forests and fluvial plains here have enjoyed peace for decades now, and only received a little of the oil wealth that has transformed so much of the rest of the peninsula. A lack of development means tourism still only contributes about 3 per cent to Oman’s GDP despite the jewels the country has to offer. Adventure tourism has had a presence in Salalah for years, but rarely involving much direct interaction with the locals, and certainly not led by women.
That’s why I was so interested in Ghudu, meaning “Let’s go” in Jabbali, and run by two Omani women, Wisal al Rashdi and Nooralhuda al Mandhari, who have spent years visiting Dhofar to recruit tribal communities as guides and experienced providers. I have picked the busiest time of year, known as khareef, Dhofar’s monsoon season, when temperatures drop to a pleasant 20C and a heady fog blankets the foothills. In a part of the world where unbearable heat and sand dunes are the norm, it’s strange to exchange a beach for sinkholes, woodland and mountains that stretch for 1600ha before petering out into the massive Rub al Khali, known as the “Empty Quarter”, the world’s largest sand desert.
Ghudu can tailor trips according to individual interests, and I’m eager to meet someone from the mountain region to tell me about the Jabbali language and culture. And so that visit is arranged to meet Arif, my guide driving me there through scenery that dramatically switches within an instant, one minute fog and fecund greenery, the next bone-dry sand dust. Departing from Muscat International Hotel in central Salalah, which I would only recommend if you have earplugs due to the very thin walls, we pull up after a few hours to a large, circular hut in the middle of nowhere. Arif greets us, his traditional scarf hanging loosely over his bare chest and a rifle swinging around his side, for scaring off the Arabian leopards that threaten his flock.
And this is how I score that front-row seat at a performance of Arif’s nana, a folkloric song form in which the singer performs a plaintive lament to nature. It is something that foreigners would generally not have access to. You don’t need to understand the language to feel the deep connections of Dhofar people to their land. Yet traditional mountain life is imperilled by the fast-moving and persuasive drive of modernisation that has already brought all of Arif’s brothers to jobs in the city. After our conversation in his hut, Arif takes us to visit his camel flock. Among a sea of camels – not only his, but those of many other shepherds – he begins calling out to them in Jabbali, and one by one only his own camels begin to approach us, recognising the sound of their master’s voice. Not that master is really the right word for it; in Jabbali families, camels are adored like children.
We are shown how camels are milked and offered a bucket of their frothy goodness to decant into plastic bottles to take away.
With more time, I’d have booked Ghudu’s “Experience Taqah” package, which takes travellers on hikes to lush waterfalls and springs, called “eyes” in Arabic. These are led by Kherzad, Ghudu’s intrepid local female guide, who’s a registered nurse and pioneered the first all-women’s hiking group in the region. When we meet, she tells me of other trips she offers, such as a boat ride in the nearby Arabian Sea and an intimate coffee with local craftswomen. But her favourites, she says, are visits to local springs and marching up a sand dune. “It’s not good to hike in the mountains right now, it’s too wet,” she says, gesturing at the misty atmosphere. “I’ve only hiked five times this month.”
While many tourists flock to the luxury hotels of Muscat and the historic streets of Nizwa, the city of Salalah, gives an idea of the expansive maritime Omani empire, which once stretched from Iran to Zanzibar. And as tourism develops there, it’s the smaller, sustainable projects such as Ghudu that provide personal experiences and help people to sustain their pastoral lives and preserve their traditions. Salalah also makes a good base for forays out with Ghudu. There are good Indian and Lebanese restaurants, as well as those selling traditional Omani food, and coffee and sweet cakes available from pitstops everywhere.
The bravest hikers could choose to camp under the stars alongside the herders, although Salalah’s numerous hotels, such as the five-star, beachside Al Baleed Resort Salalah by Anantara, with its smart white villa rooms and pools, provide a more comfortable option. The khareef season can be busy and it’s essential to book early to see its mysterious rains and join thousands of Gulf tourists who race to fly kites and eat picnics in the beguiling mists of Dhofar. Your reward will be to witness a part of the Middle East most people in the West have never heard about, and that could well change.
In the know
Ghudu has day trips from £390 ($763) for three people including transport from Salalah and one meal. Rooms at Al Baleed Resort Salalah by Anantara from $635 a night, twin-share; breakfast included. Etihad Airways operates return flights from Sydney, Melbourne and Perth to Muscat via Abu Dhabi.
Sophia Smith Galer was a guest of Ghudu.
THE TIMES
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