Discovering Oman’s Gems at Nizwa Souq

By Olga Velikaya

At 7:40 AM, Nizwa Goat Market was bustling. Farmers from nearby villages walked the cattle inside a circular open-air pavilion, and bidders sat on benches inside or stood outside the circle. Everyone was talking, everything was moving, nothing was organised, yet it only seemed that way to an outsider. Chaotic at first glance, it was actually a fine-tuned process of selling and buying livestock.

While jumpy cows of different sizes, origins and colours pulled against their leashes, the buyers hastily shouted their bids. If goats could be bought for around 100 Omani riyals, the prices for cows ranged from RO 300 to 700 depending on the weight and breed. As if they sensed the finale, some small cows stubbornly refused to move forward and the bigger ones frantically shook their heads. When a bull or calf wildly searched an escape route, everyone hurriedly stepped aside.

Among the actual buyers, there were also many spectators, some with professional cameras, eager to get that one shot. A woman in a burqa and a traditional face mask sat cross-legged on the ground with a little goat. Both kids and elderly men mostly watched the action from afar – playing, catching up with friends and drinking chai karak.

While the bidding lasted for a couple of hours, the other parts of Nizwa Souq were equally lively. Not just the pavilions, but also the streets were dotted with sellers of dried fish and makeshift stalls with fresh produce: papayas, green and yellow bananas, grapes, apricots, watermelons, bell peppers, etc. Straight from an Aladdin movie, in front of the meat market, a group of elderly men was leisurely sitting on the rug, drinking Omani kahwa and selling garlic from Al Jabal Al Akhdhar.

“As-salamu alaykum,” I greeted them.

“Wa-Alaikum-Salaam,” they responded cheerfully. “Kayfak?”

“Zayna, al-hamdu, li-lah,” I replied quickly.

“Oh, you speak Arabic!” one of them laughed in surprise.

“Shway shway ,” I gestured with my fingers. “Is it OK if I take pictures of you?”

“Ma fi mushkila ,” they all nodded in agreement. While I was adjusting my settings between each shot, they patiently waited: looked at me, at each other, laughed and talked.

“Shukran.”

“Afwan,” a man with a long white beard replied. “Come have kahwa with us!”

Immediately, he started pouring coffee into small paper cups while asking various questions. After a quick chat, two cups of coffee and some dates, I bought a bag of garlic for the family and bid a farewell, “Maa Salama .”

Given their strategic location in the middle of the market and authentic looks, I was sure many tourists approached them, but still they were so friendly and welcoming. You’d think they would get annoyed after the hundreds time, but it seemed Oman’s famous hospitality was passed through DNA.

An air-conditioned date shop was a refreshing escape from the heat. Before buying, anyone could try different types of dry dates such as Khalas, Khunaizi, Fardh, Nagal, Qash Patash, etc. as well as fresh ones. In a room with a large steel tahini-making machine, sesame seeds were ground into a smooth, silky paste. For a nutty, sweet taste, Omanis dipped dried dates into the paste and served them with coffee. Sesame seeds complemented the sugariness of dates in the most surprising way.

“Come, come! Try some halwa!” a young Omani man in dishdasha greeted me cheerfully at the covered vegetable market. He gave me a spoon filled with a red-brown jelly-looking dessert, which tasted sweet and had a gelatinous texture, nuts, and a strong rosewater smell.

“We have different kinds of halwa: honey, walnut, fig, saffron, frankincense,” the seller commented pointing at a display with ingredients. Halwa was made with water, white and brown sugar, corn starch, rose water, ghee, nuts, saffron and cardamom. Though a traditional halwa was a staple dessert at all celebratory occasions in Oman, the saffron one seemed exotic. Its texture was the same, but the colour was more red-yellow and the smell was strong with spicy notes, a hint of honey and hay. The most expensive kind was the halwa with mixed nuts and organic sugar.

Going to the East Souq equaled travelling back in time. A bit shabby, withered shops and dusty environment sparked curiosity like unpolished diamonds. Merchants sold different spices, nuts, dry rose petals, clay frankincense burners, household objects made of dry palm leaves, and other souvenirs.

In the next pavilion, a Silver Crafting little shop with dimmed lights caught my attention. An elderly man in a white turban sat behind a desk surrounded with handcrafted silver and copper objects and jewellery. His name was Nasser, and he was 80 years old. On the wall, there were some vintage pictures of him in his youth which showed that he used to make different ornaments for female wedding gowns.

“Sometimes the government borrows what I make for different celebrations to showcase at exhibitions,’’ he said humbly. The son and grandson walked in, and it turned out that they didn’t follow in his footsteps but seemed immensely proud of their grandfather. Nasser’s apparent activeness at his age resonated with me. His zeal for life was genuinely inspiring. As the scorching heat intensified, life at the market was slowly winding down: the humming quieted, the streets got empty, and the shops closed. Nizwa Souq turned peaceful and sleepy but would awaken at first light the next morning .