waiting for the wadi water

by Kirsten Braund (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection United Kingdom

As we came over the hill I pointed to the river. A fast flowing Masala chai river roaring through crumbling biscuit hills. It hadn't been there two hours before. We turned the bend and there was the frothy water racing across the tarmac. A car was parked. One Indian man was standing watching an Omani man wade across. 'It is a little high still, maybe 10 more minutes for your car', he shouted over. We watched some branches speed by. The two men left. I told them I'd wait as my Toyota Echo wouldn't have enough clearance. The in-laws looked nervous as the men waved goodbye. We watched the swirling water at our feet as the light began to fade. An oncoming car diverted our attention. It was the same two men. The Omani shouted, 'Are you still here?' He smiled cheekily. I nodded. 'We came back for you', he said, ' I couldn't sleep tonight if something happened to a foreigner in my country.' I put my hand lightly on my chest: a sign of a thank you. The in-laws anxious in the back seat as I eased into the sandy water. Water half way up the tyres, three quarters up, slowly, don't flood the engine, top of the tyres, and then through. Both men cheered and jumped into their car. We followed them through three more minor floods that criss-crossed the swollen wadi among cathedrals of rock that changed hue in the evening glow: dusky pinks to deep purples. At the next bend we found a full force flood and a traffic jam of several cars, a mini bus and a 4x4. If the 4x4 wasn't going through then neither were we! We abandoned our cars and saw some people perched up on a ledge near an outstretched tree. They looked like vultures watching the commotion below. We went to join them. Arabian sunsets happen quickly. They rush through a dramatic band of colours and then the shadows of the mountains enveloped us. The darkness brought with it unease but then we heard echoing through the valley, a call to prayer. A comforting reassuring sign of life beyond our isolation. A stillness washed over us as the river whispered below. Then our Omani angel came over, 'Please join us for Iftar, the breaking of the fast.' He held out his hand. We mumbled in our Britishness: 'oh we couldn't possibly, we have eaten today, you haven't, we'll be fine, well ...if you're sure...' We sat with all the others: several Omani men, one young family and a whole minibus of Indian workers still in their blue overalls. Tiffins were opened and food past around. We ate, chatted and shared in the blackness. The only light an eery blue flash from phones that didn't work in the circle of mountains. We were cocooned. We were experiencing the great Arab hospitality, Muslim hospitality, especially at Ramadam. Then with a screeching of tyres the tranquillity was broken. We all peered down, amused at what we might see. A speeding low slung Toyota Camry taxi blasted around the corner and straight into the river. The water went right over the bonnet of the car, giving the taxi green bug eyes and a type of luminous submarine quality. He didn't slow at all and ploughed through to the other side. We all stood and cheered. The driver waved his arm wildly and let out a half laugh/shout in throat curdling Arabic while his white teeth beamed through his smiling beard. His daring deed set off a stampede down the hillside as everyone rushed to their cars, like some crazy cannonball run. The minibus spluttered through the water, the 4x4 glided and we even managed our own submarine adventure. Our 'guides' up ahead cheering us on. Fifteen minutes later on the safety of the plains, our friends pulled over and we did like-wise. We shook hands and thanked them. They then handed us a small ceramic pot with a green lid and pictures of fruit on the side. Every time I look at that pot in my kitchen I am reminded of the nameless guardians who reached out to me and my family.