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| Philip Game | profile | all galleries >> Photoblogs: stories from far and wide >> Mountains of Madness, 1984-85 | tree view | thumbnails | slideshow |
The desolate, purple Hajjar Mountains of eastern Arabia, forming the border between the Sultanate of Oman and the United Arab Emirates, hold many secrets. A myriad of uncharted tracks lead to vistas of contorted rock, lost tribes, ruined forts, rich veins of fossils and unexplored Bronze Age archaeological sites.
As no-one proscribed the traditional movement of nomadic peoples, visitors could not always anticipate whether they too would be permitted to cross - just part of the adventure!
Soon after taking up a posting in Abu Dhabi, booming capital of the United Arab Emirates, I began to look for opportunities to explore beyond the city limits.
The stalwarts of Abu Dhabi's Natural History Society were enthusiastic companions with access to suitable vehicles. Whilst some took the opportunity to catalogue hitherto unknown desert plants or 5,000 year old grave sites, others of us revelled in the prospect of exploration pure and simple. Our excursions into the Hajjar Mountains or up into the Musandam Peninsula usually crossed the loosely-defined border with the Sultanate of Oman.
At midday on a typical Thursday, as the city clocked off for the Muslim weekend, we would set course for the mountains.
Our journeys had the lure of the true unknown, as maps or guidebooks were rarely unavailable. At best we could pore over a simple chart drawn up by the electricity authority; we compiled sketch maps and track notes as we went.
Six-lane highways raced from Abu Dhabi across the sabkha, featureless salt flats merging into the mangroves of the Persian Gulf. There were few effective speed limits on these open highways but when dusk set in, the danger of grazing camels loping onto the roadway imposed its own limits.
Nothing met the eye but gently undulating bleached sand, dotted, sparingly with tufts of salt-resistant herbage, peppered generously with the carcasses of wrecked vehicles. Turning inland, the sands steadily darkened to a rich, reddish orange and shaped themselves into sensuous waves. On the horizon the purple crags of the Hajjar appeared, separating blazing blue sky from burning dunes. All too rarely would we might encounter a Bedouin camel train.
Two hours run east of the Persian Gulf coast, the town of Dibba faced the Indian Ocean, sweltering under the lee of the haze-shrouded Musandam escarpment. The Musandam Peninsula and the corresponding coastline of Iran form the bottleneck where the Arabian Gulf squeezes through the Straits of Hormuz.
Adrenalin levels surged as we bowled along Dibba's waterfront. Would we be turned back at the Omani border, just beyond the town ?
Musandam forms an isolated enclave, separated from the rest of the Sultan's domains by the UAE's Emirate of Fujairah on the Indian Ocean coast. At the large, blue sign welcoming us in both English and Arabic to the Sultanate of Oman the extravagant six-lane esplanade narrowed abruptly to a no-nonsense two lanes - but there was no checkpoint or barrier to block our run up to the mountains.
The coastal plain soon gave way to a steep walled wadi reminiscent of the gorges of Central Australia. Goats grazed and ragged children emerged, waving, from small huts of stone. Social progress was evident in the galvanized steel water tanks, provided for the Sultan's loyal subjects.
Soon the road began a steep climb into the ranges. The Land Rover came into its own on these boulder-strewn, precipitous roads, although the temperature gauge climbed alarmingly as we switchbacked to the top of the range. Huge, contorted folds of bare rock were exposed like a geological map, no vegetation veiling the outcrops. And just what did those goats find to eat?
Soon the road began a steep climb into the ranges. The Land Rover came into its own on these boulder-strewn, precipitous roads, although the temperature gauge climbed alarmingly as we switchbacked to the top of the range. Huge, contorted folds of bare rock were exposed like a geological map, no vegetation veiling the outcrops. And just what did those goats find to eat?
This was the land of the Shihuh - a dwindling tribe of incredibly hardy mountaineers, its men naked to the waist and speaking an archaic language unrelated to the Arabic of the coastal towns. Most had now been lured down to the coastal settlements by the Omani government's new schools, electricity, running water and clinics. Their hamlets, terraced fields and stone towers stood empty and untended beneath the unyielding sun.
When we met a lone Shihuh wanderer, he refrained from threatening us with his distinctive traditional small axe - reputedly the terror of the lowland townspeople - but gestured politely for some water. The aridity of these mountains was emphasized by the stone-walled, terraced fields, climbing 1000 metres straight up from the gorges and all the more remarkable for their utter barrenness. One sheer cliff face, reached only by a trail which was treacherous even in our rugged leather boots, held caves painstakingly walled in beneath an underhanging ledge. From fear of whom or what was this impregnable fortress constructed?
For ourselves, the greatest hazards lay in sunstroke, mechanical breakdown, or the giant black-and-yellow hornets which droned endlessly above our heads.
Descending from the main ridge through yet more tight hairpin bends, ever mindful of the sheer drop below, we finally reached the wide, flat floor of the Wadi Bih. The red, green and white flag of the Sultanate, with its distinctive motif of crossed traditional daggers, fluttered above a small border post guarding an otherwise solitary crossroads.
At the Omani border post we were turned away from the northbound fork that zigzagged up the far wall of the Wadi Bih towards the Straits of Hormuz. This track would forever remain our Ultima Thule - always just out of reach. Instead we took the fork leading west and back into Emirates territory - as indicated by a dusty military encampment, where our residence permits were scrutinised.
The road home led on past a hill crowned with crumbling ruins, traditionally the palace of the legendary Queen of Sheba, into the old Gulf port of Ras Al Khaimah.
Just inland from the coastal salt flats, low ruined walls and scattered shards of Greek and Persian pottery still marked an outpost of the legions of Alexander the Great, still a legendary figure across all of Asia. These archeological sites remained known only to scholars and adventurers: no fences, opening hours, regulations or rangers came between us and the ruins.
And so we bowled back down the six-lane coastal highway, passing through the centuries-old port of Dubai where mudbrick wind-towers still funneled the slightest breeze off the Gulf into the homes of smugglers and merchants.
Homebound, we raced against the setting sun, alert as always for errant camels, towards Abu Dhabi, now capital of a fast developing nation but within living memory no more than a clump of palm thatch mud huts along the shore. Just outside Abu Dhabi airport, one fortunate Natural Historian found an intact ancient Greek amphora (twin-handled water vessel) half-buried in the dunes.
