“Well, that didn’t quite go as planned”, Mrs J remarked as Ol’ Martha, our Pajero stuck in 3rd gear, came to an abrupt halt.
Mrs J, who believed in pristine white linen shirts, was after several days on the road, beginning to look distinctly grubby. Her curly copper red hair had taken on an afro look, which at times reminded me of the 80s pop band ‘Boney M’; Google it, and you’ll know what I mean. But neither hairdo nor grubby white shirt seemed to have dampened her spirits. The road sign in front of us did, however.
“Yemen???” she glared at me “the border to Yemen? Are you kidding me?”
We sat silently for a while, just staring at the signboard which without a doubt told us that Yemen lay straight ahead.
“If you squint really hard and look at the horizon, you can actually see the border post, I agreed. It was true that we had left Thamrait in a bit of a hurry in the morning, and its true that I might actually have missed the exit to Salalah. It is also true that in our 35 years of friendship Mrs J and I had never argued. That day broke our record. I argued that I couldn’t be expected to be responsible for both driving and map reading, fire making, tent erecting and tea making. Mrs J argued that I was an idiot.
As we sat there, both sulking, a small dot on the horizon got bigger and bigger. With the heat haze hovering just above the road, the dot shimmered and stayed distorted while slowly, slowly getting closer. Our sulking was replaced by awe when a strapping young lad in spandex cycling shorts rode past us on his mountain bike, tightly packed with what looked like tent and sleeping bag.
“Did he just come out of Yemen? I wondered aloud “or did we experience a mirage?”
“Maybe he just missed the exit in Thamrait”, Mrs J mumbled through her pursed lips, happy to have gotten in one last dig.
With a last glimpse of the Yemeni border post in the distance, we made a u-turn, in 3rd gear, and caught up with the Omani bike rider. With his music firmly plugged into his ears, it took a while before he noticed us, but when he did, his face lit up in a huge smile. Over coffee we heard his story. Yes, Hamdon had indeed came from Yemen on his bike. He had one day decided, as you do, to cycle from Muscat to Salalah, got on his bike and set off, carrying with him only what he absolutely needed. Mrs J and I looked at each other and shuddered. It certainly made our road trip look like a luxury holiday, even if stuck in 3rd gear.
On his way, young Hamdoon had come across some friendly Yemenis who had invited him to visit. “So I thought, why not cycle to Yemen”, he grinned.
Our surprise to come across this cycling, spandex clad youngster, was nothing compared to that of the border guards. This wasn’t something they saw every day and they shook their heads in disbelief when he pedalled off. True to their words his new Yemeni friends had been perfect hosts while he explored their neighbourhood on his bike. “But don’t stray too far”, they had warned.
Hamdoon waved goodbye as he started his long journey back to Muscat. Mrs J watched him disappearing in the distance. “I’m sorry we argued”, she said ‘‘I see now that there really is no shame in missing the exit and taking a different path. When one door closes another opens”. I knew I had to stop her before she turned to more clichés and inspirational quotes from Facebook, but I needed not have worried. “At least we didn’t wear spandex”, she concluded “I bet he has blisters”.
And so we continued our blister-free journey towards Salalah. It had been a long journey, but at least we didn’t have to wear spandex.
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