I’ve moved to my new home! Click here for a magic carpet ride that will take you there. See ya!

So while we are going through great lengths trying to capture each and every broken door in town, someone from the group decides to shoot us photographers instead.

Photographers, you see, are highly dedicated individuals who get so absorbed with their work they barely notice that the building might come crumbling down on them any minute.

There even comes a time when photographers shoot each other…

Some stand right behind a photogpraher to shoot him or her up close…

To a photographer, a wall is never simply a wall, it’s beauty. It’s art.

Yes, we all ended up posting pictures of the same walls, doors, bricks and windows up on our Facebook accounts where we all have common friends, so they see each and every piece of this town at least a dozen times.

Allow me to once again tell you this important piece of advice: a wall is never just a wall.

Thank you.

We also gather around this poor tree and take a million pictures of the same leaf. This task is so intricate that one may actually need more than one camera…

And sometimes, photographers receive guidance too. Someone would almost always say, “Hey, look at this! Take a picture, quick!”

And they will press the ‘like’ button when you post that picture.

I like the idea of shooting photographers in action; the unsuspecting ones, that is. I think I’ll post more behind-the-scenes pictures of how we take the pictures that I post on this blog. Would you like that?

One look at the seclusion and crumbling walls across the main road tells us that we have arrived at the right place. It’s a couple of hours before dusk; we have some time to explore the  area before it eventually gets dark. We park our cars right in front of a fort that watches over narrow alleys and abandoned buildings in eerie silence.

A sister of mine knows some people from a photography club. It is through them that we came to know about this town. It’s a weekend, and not having any other plan, we decide on visiting this place for some photography fun.

The breeze is chilly. There is labor camp not so far away. We see a couple of men walk past us carrying firewood on their heads. When they left, there are only the eight of us remaining in the area. I look up; a few fluffy clouds are scattered on a very blue sky, and a few birds fly overhead. We pick up our cameras and start walking towards the quiet town.

This place is Jazirat al-Hamra, or the Red Island, located in Ras al Khaimah, one of the seven emirates that form the U.A.E. It is also known as the ghost town. The story goes that this town was haunted, which is the reason why it was abandoned, and has remained uninhabited and neglected since 1968.

The main paths meander through this village—passing by mosques, and houses with features like wooden doors, star windows, wind-towers, and courtyards—towards the sea. However, all of these structures lie in varying degrees of decay.

Occupied by the Za’ab tribe, this coastal village was created in the 14th century on a peninsula. They were also called Hadhr, which is the local name for coastal Bedouins, whose livelihood depended mainly on pearling.

The 1930s economic crises saw the decline of the natural pearl industry. Few years later, this town was deserted when the inhabitants moved out, attracted by the prospect of better living conditions offered by the local government. People left behind their houses, mosques and shops, creating what now is an undisturbed picture of life before the exploitation of oil.

It is said that the house shown above belonged to a very wealthy merchant. I have not walked past the house to see the other side, but I heard that there is a huge courtyard in front of the house. The mud-and-brick wind towers were designed to funnel even the slightest breeze off the Gulf into the house.

But what I find really interesting while roaming around the deserted town is how corals and sea shells were incorporated with stone and mud to create the walls. Most of the houses were built from coral rag, the roofs were constructed from palm trunks. The walls of the oldest buildings have larger pieces of coral, while the younger once were built from bricks of crushed coral.

This town is so famous for being haunted that different people have different stories to tell. A nephew of mine—very charming and naughty—said that he once came to this town with some of his friends. They drove into the town and decided to stop in front of a big house. Some of them started to smoke cigarettes and chat. Few minutes later, they looked down and noticed that there were actually graves right at that spot!

We walk around town but do not find any graves.

A few journalists even decided to spend the night here hoping to encounter whatever is rumored to be living in these decaying structures. Although incomplete, their ‘live’ update was featured here.

This is the courtyard that I find the most impressive. We stand there for a few minutes trying to imagine how lively this place must have been years ago. As you can see, the pillars look like they will come apart anything soon. Someone had a recent bonfire around here, the soot scattered right at the center of the courtyard.

Do we ‘feel’ anything at all? No. My sister even remarks that the town has no fear factor at all. We comfortably pass through the alleys, stopping in front of houses to take pictures. Once, I enter the fort to take pictures from inside, but there is this uncomfortable feeling—like I’m trespassing or something—so I decide not to enter any other building.

Photographers frequent this place. One can spend hours roaming about, taking countless pictures. This is also a favorite amongst fashion photographers.

We quickly walk back towards our cars when the sun begins to set into the horizon. Although we do not encounter anything spooky, it is believed by a lot of people that there are jinns who live here, and they usually come out at nightfall. We are not interested to meet them, so we leave.

Jazirat al-Hamra may be a ghost town to many, but for me it is an amazing piece of history. It is also the last authentic and traditional town still standing in the U.A.E., and if the government does not do anything to preserve it soon, it is going to perish forever. Some say that this place is off-limits, but I do not see a sign anywhere.

How to get here:

We took the Emirates Road (E311) and drove straight until we approached a roundabout. Take left (the sign says ‘Umm al-Quwain’). After some time, you will see the Ice Land water park on your right. Keep driving until you see some whale statues on your left. Take right and drive straight until you see the town on your right.

You can also read this account about Ras al Aisha al Shareef, whose ancestors once lived in this very town.

And I’ll tell you all about this place. And why I’m here.

Soon.

The following picture reminds me of Marine Drive in Mumbai…

So just to make things clear: Oman is the country, Muscat is the province and Muttrah is a city in Muscat. We didn’t know that. So off we went to stop the first Omani guy we saw on the road, and asked, “How do we get to Muscat from here?” Perplexed, he replied, “This is Muscat!”

We loved Muttrah. It’s also called the Old Muscat, and it felt like we were in a totally different time. Did you know that this port was once occupied by the Portuguese? By the 17th century, however, the Omanis have had enough of them. They not only kicked the Portuguese out of their ports (and country) but controlled trade and territories along the African, Iranian and Indian coasts up until 1970.

I find these fish rather disturbing; they appear to be eating each other! There are several fish-themed displays such as this along the entire corniche. And the famous Muttrah souq is also located nearby. Pressed for time, we opted not to venture into the souq. But you can read all about it here.

Another dilemma was finding an inexpensive hotel to spend 8 hours in. When we checked online, the cheapest rate we could find was 20 riyals (200 dirhams) per night for a one-star hotel, without breakfast. That was still expensive for us because in Dubai or Sharjah, one can find a three-star hotel with that rate!

Traffic that evening at the Muttrah corniche was bad, so we parked our car and walked around to check the nearby hotels. There are several hotels facing the corniche. We went and saw three, then finally decided on the Corniche Hotel.

It’s also a one-star hotel. We had a double room for 15 riyals (17 riyals, if you want breakfast) inclusive of taxes. The staff and their manager were all very friendly and polite. And the rooms, although very basic, were really clean.

I had a very restless night, tossing and turning in bed due to severe headache, and by 4 am the phone began ringing—I felt like my head was going to explode with the sound—and turned out to be a wrong number. A couple of hours later, Masood left to pray faj’r in a mosque just a few steps away from the hotel.  I couldn’t muster the energy to go lock the door, and I didn’t want Masood to lock me in either. My sisters were asleep in the next room anyway, so I asked him to leave the door unlocked.

Masood returned with breakfast. “How much?” I casually asked, opening the plastic container filled with choley and dipping a piece of paratha in it.

“Five hundred,” he replied.

“Five hundred?!” I choked on my paratha.

“Five hundred baisas,” he said.

“Oh. Why didn’t you say so in the first place,” I resumed eating.

500 baisas = 4.5 dirhams = $1.5

That is a very large incense burner of Riyam Park. Some tourists initially think it’s a space ship.

It looked prettier at night…

And then of course, there were boats…

And more traditional boats…

Another beautiful structure at Muttrah is the the Al-Lawatiya Mosque…

It is officially named Masjid al-Rasool al-A’tham or the Mosque of the Great Prophet. Its striking mosaic-covered dome and blue minaret dominate the skyline of Muttrah. This mosque is the central place of worship for members of the Lawati community.

And then there’s this fort. The Muttrah Fort…

Perched on a rocky hill and overlooking the town, this is one of Oman’s oldest forts. Originally, this beautiful sixteenth century fort was built by the Portuguese during their occupation and was used for keeping prisoners. We tried to find ways to climb up, but it appeared like it has been closed down to public for safety reasons.

Overall, Muttrah Corniche is a must-see for anyone who’s visiting Muscat. Parking is not an issue at all (at least it wasn’t for us, and we were there on a weekend). And if you don’t have your own car, there are lots of taxis available. The only thing that we had a hard time finding was a decent desi meal.

The following shot was taken by my sister, Sophia, the proud owner of the Nikon D3000 that we used throughout this trip. We—Sanaf, my other sister who is also my photography buddy, and myself—kept Sophia busy behind the wheels as we took charge of the more difficult task at hand: photography. Masood had less pressing matters in his mind, like finding us a hotel to stay in, for example, since we didn’t book beforehand. We didn’t even know where the hotels were located in the city.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, I was showing you this photograph taken by Sophia. Did I tell you that she isn’t the least bit interested in photography? She hardly took four pictures throughout the trip. One of them was this one.

So she ended up focusing sharply on the leaves and branches, and left the main subject blurred in the background. “That’s a nice picture, Sophia!” I told her, taking the camera from her hands. “I’ll take it from here.”

She’s better at sketching, while I’m better in photography. Life is fair.

These low-lying white houses typify most of Muscat’s urban landscape.

“Wow, this looks like Greece!” exclaimed Sanaf, who has traveled to Europe several times. “Oh yes, it does!” the rest of us agreed, without the slightest idea how the houses in Greece looked like.

Not having skyscrapers obstruct our view was a pleasant change. We—the residents of the UAE who cannot imagine a building without a construction crane sitting on top of it—felt so liberated, like we were able to breathe.

And if Dubai is clean, Muscat is even cleaner.

After driving for what seemed like years, we finally saw signs of Muscat. It rained on and off since we crossed the UAE-Oman border at Hatta, and this slowed down our speed considerably; that, and the fact that we stopped for tea, prayers, money exchange, and photography.

We couldn’t help it. The mountains were spectacular! For a huge part, the highway to Muscat (and the city itself, as we would later discover) has been carved out from these very mountains—these imposing, strong and solid pillars of nature.

And somewhere between these mountains was a place where people went with their families to enjoy a picnic. We stopped for a moment to watch them. A group of young girls were playing football. There was also a narrow stream of water in which some children were cheerfully splashing about; the cool January wind carried the sound of their carefree laughter all the way up to the highway where we stood.

Okay, so those were the normal things that people like you and me do. What we don’t normally do is this…

We were driving towards Muscat when we saw several cars parked on the side of the highway and curious-looking people taking photographs and videos of something that looked highly interesting. We immediately pulled over. We were, after all, tourists and must, therefore, indulge ourselves in all things touristy.

We saw some young men (presumably Omani, based on the way they were dressed) trying to drive up a steep mountain of sand…

They would drive really fast, aiming to reach the top, where some of their friends stood. Getting up there on the first attempt must be a great achievement; we observed that most drivers reached the top after multiple tries. If one got stuck in the middle, he would bring the jeep down in reverse and try again!

Here’s a small clip of this crazy driving. That first jeep reached the top on the third attempt. Oh, and pardon the voices in the background; the spectators were merely fascinated by what they were seeing.

And the following less steeper playground—situated right across the madness shown above—is, I’m presuming, for the beginners…

“Yeah, I’m good,” came the reply, “How about we drive all the way to Oman this weekend?”

And just like that, the very next day, we—my two younger sisters, a friend and her mom, Masood, and I—left Sharjah for Muscat on a cloudy and wet January morning. We were driving down E11 or the Emirates Road (following the Hatta-Oman sign) by 8:30 am.  We made a couple of stops, first for breakfast and another to fill up the tank, then came across the first check post a couple of hours later. They were randomly checking for passports; they let us go, but checked the passports of our friend and her mom.

These are the beautiful Hajjar mountains, and Hatta is the main town (although still a part of Dubai). It has a cooler climate, so people usually drive up here during weekends or holidays, the younger Emiratis racing each other in their flashy sports cars.

Anyway, so there were a couple of check points before we finally saw the passport office. It’s a pathetic-looking, makeshift office on the right side of the highway. You don’t want to miss this, however; if you continue driving into the Omani border, the officers there will send you back here to have that exit stamp on your passport!

We parked the car and welcomed the cold breeze hitting our faces. It was really cold. I couldn’t keep the camera steady. Yes, I started clicking away the moment my feet touched the border soil. We showed our passports to the young Emirati officer behind the window and had exit dates stamped on them.  Our friend, however, wasn’t cleared to exit the country—her passport was expiring soon. To exit the border into Oman, passport and U.A.E. resident visa should be valid for the next 6 months. So she and her mom decided to drive back to Dubai.

We took turns taking pictures  right in front of the passport officer’s window, smiling brightly. Six hundred and twenty-two photographs later, we spotted the “No Photography” sign, and quietly walked away. We’re law-abiding people like that.

Moments later the officer climbed down from the cabin and followed us. I thought he was coming to confiscate our cameras, but it turned out that he was worried that all of us were driving back to Dubai with the exit stamps and all. He left after being assured that we were indeed going to exit the country.

So we headed back to the parking lot and spent the next thirty minutes taking group pictures with the mountains as a backdrop. And we were enjoying the cold breeze; we’re deprived of such glorious weather for most part of the year.

Here’s a picture (back side, taken discreetly) of the passport/immigration office at the U.A.E. side of the border:

And then, here’s the passport/immigration office of the Oman side of the border—about an hour or so of drive later:

See the difference? Their office is grand! There weren’t many people around, probably due to the rain, so getting the visa was a breeze. We filled up a small form available at the counter, paid 50 dirhams ($14), and got a single entry visa that would allow us to stay in Oman for the next 28 days. Dirhams are accepted here, but beyond this point you would need to pay in riyals.

Our car’s insurance covers both the U.A.E. and Oman so we didn’t have a problem, but for those who don’t have insurance you can get one here. The officer will ask you to show the papers. He’ll give you a small piece of paper that you need to show at a few check posts into Oman.

On our way back into Dubai the following evening, we were asked to pay 2 riyals (19 dirhams) for this:

The officers at the Omani border were really nice and friendly. When my sister inquired if they had a city map in English, one of the guys behind the counter handed over six leaflets and two books, one of them in German.

“Um, this is in German,” my sister said, returning the book. “I don’t understand this language.”

“How about this one?” the guy asked, handing her a book in Chinese.

“Well, I think I’ll take the one in German,” my sister replied. “It has better pictures.”

We drove towards Oman, and asked the officer at the last check post for directions to Muscat.

“Go straight,” he explained, “then you see roundabout. After you see roundabout, you take right. Then go straight to Muscat.”

“Oh, that’s easy!” we said out loud and thanked him profusely.

“Drive safely!” he smiled back.

He gave us the correct directions alright. Except that he didn’t mention that Muscat was 300 kilometers away.

However, the genetic material responsible for making a person sketch so effortlessly has been passed over only to my younger sister, Sophia. And the genes that make one look good and younger than one’s actual age. And the genes that make one’s brain function like a calculator. I think that’s unfair, considering how I was the first born and all.

We didn’t have many toys when we were growing up and our mother has always encouraged us to be creative. During summer holidays, Sophia would—besides spending the afternoons in the garden digging up creepy bugs and insects—stay in a room and draw. She made it look so easy that I would peer over her work and wonder in awe.  Then I’d thought to myself, “You can do this, self! If she can draw, well so can you!” Encouraged by my own self, filled with so much determination, I’d pick up a pencil and pour my entire creative being onto the canvas.  Thirty minutes and a thousand frustrated sighs later, I’d look at the funny-looking, child-like sketch in front of me, and give up. It took me sometime to accept that the only thing I can draw with acute precision is an amoeba.

And I had to acknowledge that my baby sister had a special talent.

So I’m compensating for my lack of drawing skills with writing and photography; I find myself immensely enjoying both.

Take a look at this pencil sketch by Sophia, drawn about three years ago. What now appears like a broken, unkempt place was once a neat and well-maintained garage that belongs to an uncle.  The place has remained unattended ever since his wife passed away.

Sophia was sitting in a small balcony right across that gate and sketched the scene in front of her. If you look closely you’ll notice several things:  broken gate, half of the roof is gone, bicycle wheels hanging on the right, a water drum with “Annie” written on it (that’s the name of the aunt), a man standing on the other side of the gate, and a cat playing on the floor.  Sophia did a brilliant job in re-creating this scene.  MashaAllah.

Oh, and I’d also asked her to paint a desert scene for me to hang in my home. I’ll have it framed in a lovely wooden frame. She hasn’t started on the painting yet. So I’m signing off now to call her.

Soon, Dubai became a sufficiently prosperous port attracting settlers from Iran, India and Baluchistan. The facilities for trade and free enterprise were enough to make Dubai a natural haven for merchants who left Lingah, on the Persian coast, after the introduction of high customs dues there in 1902. These people were mostly of distant Arab origin and looked across to the Arab shore of the Gulf finally making their homes in Dubai.

The creek divides Dubai into Bur Dubai and Deira …

Image courtesy of Google Maps

Crossing the creek during those times meant a long and arduous journey around the end of the creek or a ride in an abra, a small wooden boat that ferries passengers to this day.   Today, the city is connected via modern bridges and a tunnel that runs underwater.

A stroll down the wharf on Dubai’s Creek amidst the hustle and bustle of business evokes memories of the city’s trading past.  One can see trucks laden with goods and laborers hurriedly loading the dhows with cargo ranging from car tires and batteries, to soft drinks, fabrics, bags of rice to electronics and other consumer goods destined for the markets in the neighboring countries of Africa and the middle east and beyond.

And besides the traditional abra that I absolutely love to ride (it only costs 1 dirham to cross the creek!), there are also the modern Water Taxis …

But nothing beats the traditional abra ride …

Oh, and I was deeply fascinated by the way they load a jeep onto the old, wooden ships.  One moment the Land Cruiser was driving past me, the next moment it was being pulled up in onto the ship.

If you ever visit Dubai and not see this place, I’d feel sorry for you.  You have to see this part of the creek where you can experience the old Dubai as you face the setting sun, watch the abras float by, and bite into a piece of warm shawarma and a sip of hot chai.