Kila ndege huruka kwa bawa lake, came the words in the voice of her mother as she drifted off to sleep. Kila ndege huruka kwa bawa lake. Every bird flies with its own wings.
22
“This place is owned by the government,” Hani warned, pointing to the Omani flag flying high above the entrance of the pottery building Rachel had spied on the outskirts of town.
“I don’t care who owns it,” Rachel called back as she scurried ahead through the parking lot. “If there are real people making real pots in here, it’s where I want to be.”
After Hani offered an extended greeting and an explanation of the reason for their visit, they were told to wait. Before long a heavyset man in a dishdasha the color of mustard appeared. “Welcome,” he said with a broad smile. “I am the one who will give you a tour today.” He clasped his hands in front of his belly and turned on his heel. “My name is Sa’id. I am the head of finance for the factory,” he explained over his shoulder.
“Factory?” Rachel’s shoulders slumped at the word.
He paused and turned to her. “Actually, we are a school.” They followed as he began a slow and deliberate path down a long hall. “Over here,” he said as he pointed the way through a doorway to a mud-caked machine that was churning like a giant dentist’s drill, “is where we mix our sand. And there is where it goes next.” They turned to see a long blue machine with dozens of spigots jutting out from the bottom, the purpose of which was not explained. “And then it goes to here.” He pointed to a large block of wet clay oozing out from a rectangular opening, reminding Rachel of the old Play-Doh Fun Factory she had as a kid.
“So where are all the potters?” she asked impatiently.
“We will get there,” Sa’id answered, holding up one hand like a cop slowing traffic. She hated when people did that.
“And this,” he said as they reached the next room, “this is our drying room.” He smiled at the tables crowded with dozens of perfectly identical bowls, still glistening with dampness under the harsh industrial light. It was hard to believe these clone soldiers actually came from the hands of real people, they were so exact in every way. Next came the glazing room, its shelves lined with pinker, drier versions of the same bowls, arranged in squads divided by height and width. And still no potters in sight. It was as though all of it had been created by elves in the night. Or staged for the benefit of visitors like her, the more cynical side of her offered. “These will be glazed by our workers later,” their guide said, as if reading her mind.
The next room held a hulking brick kiln that dominated the space. “Our oven burns wood, and has been used for many, many years.” Sa’id stood back with pride and waited for them to admire the massive apparatus. “No pictures?” he asked Rachel, who shrugged her shoulders before obligingly clicking a few frames.
“And this,” he said from the hallway outside the next doorway, “is where the detail is being done.” Rachel readied the lens in her palm and stepped over the threshold. Inside, a dozen humorless faces turned toward her from beneath their black headscarves. Each woman held a thin, delicate brush, capable—under the guidance of a steady hand—of producing the most intricate of strokes. Rachel squinted to admire the painted bowls lining the shelves around her. With hope in her eyes she turned to Sa’id, who responded with a flat palm and a shake of the head. “No photos of the women.”
After a stop in the packing room they finally came upon a handful of men who seemed to freeze in place as they approached, their mouths falling silent at the sight of visitors. It was clear they had been in conversation, standing in clusters along the far wall, next to a row of potter’s wheels sitting idle.
“And this,” Sa’id said, beaming, “is where the clay is turned into the pottery.” The men, dressed alike in baggy pants and short-sleeved shirts that matched the brown of the clay, continued to stare as Sa’id spoke. “Like I said, we are a school, not for profit, with the purpose of keeping the artistry of our area going.” One of the potters flashed a toothless smile at Rachel. All of them looked way too old to be in school. “It will take more than three years for these men to learn,” Sa’id said with pride. And way more, Rachel thought, if they continue to spend this much time standing around doing nothing.
It was, for her, yet another morning lost. And she was pissed. “Is it true,” she asked with a sidelong glance at Ariana, “that the potters of Bahla are born with magic in their fingers?”
“Pardon me?”
“Ouch!” she yelped as the edge of Ariana’s wedge clipped her foot. “I said,” Rachel repeated, louder this time, “is it true that the potters here are born with magic in their fingers?”
“No magic!” Sa’id snapped back, his face turning suddenly cold. “That was two hundred years ago. It is education! No magic,” he repeated. “Magic is against the law.”
Ariana rolled her eyes at Rachel and dragged her out the door by the arm as Hani said his goodbyes.
“Don’t worry,” he said when he caught up with the two of them in the parking lot, “I will introduce you to the real potters of Bahla. Their place is just past the old souk.” He opened the car door for Ariana. “We will stop at the souk first. Perhaps there will also be some of the craftspeople there for you to photograph.”
As they left the main thoroughfare and wound their way through the narrow roads toward the old center of Bahla, things became eerily quiet. To Rachel it almost felt like an old western town just before a high-noon duel, without a soul to be found on the sun-bleached, shadowless streets. In the main square, under the darkness of columned archways, the stores stood shuttered behind peeling paint, their garish signs the only hint of actual commerce. Barbershop, phone shop, jewelry shop, electronics shop, and at least five men’s tailor shops—which seemed very odd to Rachel, seeing as how almost every man she’d seen in Oman wore a baggy dishdasha.
“It is almost lunch time,” Hani offered in explanation of the closed stores. “Everyone is getting ready for prayers.” He parked at the edge of the square and turned off the ignition, beckoning the three women to follow him through a dark passageway barely visible behind the shuttered shops. “Let us hope that there are still some people here,” he called back. “Nothing will open again until five o’clock—after the meal and a rest.”
The moment Rachel’s feet touched the sunbaked ground of the market square, she felt something was not right. Her legs buckled slightly beneath her, her breath caught in her throat, her heart began to race, and her head felt as if it were floating above her like a balloon on a string. She stopped for a moment to lean against an ancient doorway as the others went ahead. Must be the heat, she thought as she shaded her eyes with one hand and gazed across the silent courtyard, allowing the blend of frankincense, cardamom and goat shit to do the work of smelling salts for her quavering senses.
There were very few stalls still open, and those that were seemed abandoned. The harsh sunlight had taken its toll, leaving everything cracked and faded. Wheelbarrows and shovels spoke of work underway, and in one corner she could see beautiful beamed eaves and intricately carved wooden doors that had recently been restored with care. Rachel pulled a filter from one of her vest pockets, screwed it onto her lens and began to shoot. Though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, there was something about this souk that made it different from any she’d seen before. And if it weren’t for Ariana and Miza and Hani in her line of sight, or the scaffolding that climbed up the crumbling earthen facades at the far end of the market, she might have thought she’d been transported hundreds of years into the past.
“Everything okay over there?” Ariana shouted from the shade of a broad tree in the center of the dusty square, the last half of her words swallowed by a sudden cicada chorale that crescendoed as it bounced off the worn shop walls.
“I’m good!” Rachel yelled back as she put down her camera and dug a bottle of warm water from her backpack, then started across the square on shaky legs to join them.
“He says you
should not be leaning there.” Hani tilted his head toward an old man who had joined them, a man so small he looked lost under his white robes.
“I’m sorry,” Rachel said. “I’ll try to be more careful. Good thing they seem to be fixing things up around here. Looks like a nice stiff wind could just about blow this place down.”
Hani shook his head. “No, it is not that. It is sturdy enough.”
“So then what is it?” Ariana asked, her gaze remaining on the doorway in the distance.
The old man answered something in Arabic.
“Where she was standing,” Miza translated, “is called the Pillar of Goats. It is said that goats, and people, who lean against that doorway can disappear.”
“Well, I’m still here.” Rachel patted her arms and legs as if confirming her own existence.
“For now,” Ariana muttered, loud enough for Rachel to hear.
“This is Khalfan,” Hani said. “He has been the night watchman at the souk for many years.”
“Yes,” Ariana added with a crack in her voice. “And I’m sure he’s watched quite a lot.”
The old man drifted into an animated monologue in Arabic, turning to Hani for translation after he finally paused to take a breath.
“What? What did he say?” Ariana asked without taking her eyes off the watchman.
“It is nothing. Just an old tale.” Hani turned to lead them away.
“I want to know!” she insisted with a little too much force.
“Well.” Hani paused, then responded patiently. “Khalfan was telling the story of the tree.”
“This tree?” Ariana pointed at the leafy umbrella above. The tree’s trunk was surrounded by a four-foot-high cement wall that was littered with faded red splotches.
“Yes. Well, actually, no. It was another tree. The one before this one.”
“What’s so interesting about a tree?” Rachel asked from behind her camera as she pivoted around, captivated by the strange aura of the souk.
“Well,” Hani answered, “it was believed that the sap from the old tree, a frankincense tree, was used in religious ceremonies for thousands of years, back to the times of King Solomon and Cleopatra.”
“And?” Ariana asked.
“And what?” Hani answered.
“I know he said more than that.”
“Well, this is a new tree now.”
“What happened to the old tree?” Ariana demanded.
“It became too large. It was old, and twisted. The roots were coming up from the ground. The men were cleaning and sweeping up leaves every day. So they cut it down.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Hani insisted, in a not very convincing attempt to hide the fact that he was obviously more familiar with the story than he was letting on.
The old watchman chimed in again.
“The branches burst into flame when they tried to cut it down,” Miza eagerly translated, her eyes bright with expectation. “He says that people were putting little papers with magic spells inside and around the tree. It was the government who wanted it cut down.”
Khalfan interrupted Miza to share more.
“They hired workers to do the job, he says. In the night. Their bulldozer caught on fire. Two men died. Others became ill. This is a new tree, but the old roots are still there.”
Ariana clutched her purse close and began to back slowly away. The old watchman nodded his head, and said something else to Miza.
“The jinn are still there, in the tree, he says. But they won’t come out unless you disturb them.”
By now Ariana was halfway across the square.
“And what’s with this wall?” Rachel asked as she maneuvered around for a better angle of the tree.
“The wall is where the goats are chained for auction in the mornings.”
“So what’s that red stuff all over it?”
Hani hesitated to make sure Ariana was out of earshot. “It is the blood of the birds. When someone says something bad about another person,” he explained, “a bird is killed against this wall to get the spirit out.”
23
Ariana stood over the jumble of rusted bowls and dented teapots, the cartons and tubs and buckets teeming with candlesticks and coins, key chains and spoons. Although it appeared to be overflowing with what looked like flea market junk, the last stall in the far corner of the souk had called to her, her addiction to shopping stifling the echoes of her parents’ warning. What was she supposed to do anyway? Run away from the tree and the souk and lock herself up in Hani’s car? She bent to pick a silver ring from the top of a pile in a woven basket. The watchman’s stories hadn’t made her feel any better about being in Bahla, but as he said, the jinn won’t come out unless you disturb them. And she had no intention whatsoever of doing that. Besides, the last thing she wanted was to look like an idiot in front of Rachel. And Hani.
At first she didn’t notice the man standing in the darkness of the tiny shop, amid the ropes and rifles and drums and canes hanging down from the ceiling and covering the walls. But how could she have missed him, she now thought as she took in the sight of the dark figure as big as a bear, in a crisp white dishdasha, with eyes that seemed to look right into her soul. She smiled politely and twisted the ring off her finger.
“Salaam alaikum,” she heard Miza say beside her.
“Wa alaikum a’salaam.” The man’s voice was rough like sandpaper, yet at the same time as soothing as honey. “Please,” he said as he dug two small stools from under the rubble, “come in from the sun.”
Ariana turned to find the others, but Hani was still deep in conversation with the old watchman, and Rachel was wandering the perimeter of the empty souk as if in a trance, her camera glued to her face. She reluctantly followed Miza up the two steps and into the crowded stall that was barely as big as a one-car garage.
“Sit.” The big man gestured toward the low stools with his arms. Miza pointed to her stomach and shook her head. The man swept his arm across a small table, clearing the way for Miza as papers fluttered to the ground. Ariana lowered her rear slowly down toward the little plastic seat, taking care not to disturb the teetering heaps of merchandise as she folded herself into the shape of a paperclip, her knees poking uncomfortably into her chest. The surprisingly cool air was a welcome relief, but when the man reached across with a steaming cup of Arabian coffee she could feel the perspiration running down her neck. What she wouldn’t give for a Starbucks iced latte, she thought as she politely sipped at the hot, dark brew. A plate of sticky dates was passed, buzzing with black flies. She watched as Miza simply shooed the pests away and helped herself.
“You have such lovely things here,” Ariana said, fingering the random bits of hardware in the open box beside her.
“Thank you,” said the man with a smile that revealed an impressive row of sparkling teeth. Following the path of Ariana’s wide eyes, he turned to unhook a dagger from a spot high on the wall. “This one is a very old khanjar,” he said as he pulled the heavy, curved sword from its silver sheath and handed it to her with pride.
“It would make a lovely gift for my father,” she said, while imagining the look on her dad’s face after he’d asked where she got it. She gingerly placed the blade down onto a pile of rags.
“Where is your father?” the man asked as he searched the over flowing walls for more treasures to share.
“St Albans. England. But I live in Dubai.”
The man nodded. “Zanzibar?” he asked, pointing at Miza.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Boy?” he asked, his dark eyes resting on her middle.
“Yes,” she repeated softly.
Ariana chided herself for never asking. In fact, it was ridiculous how little she knew about this woman with whom she had spent much of the past four days. She must be losing her touch.
“It is the reason I am here,” Miza added shyly.
At first the man seemed to not hear. It was Ariana who felt the need
to respond. “To have your baby? Here? In Bahla?”
“Not to give birth. To get help.”
Ariana noticed the man’s thick eyebrows go up and down almost imperceptibly. “Help?” she asked, her voice cracking. “What kind of help?”
Miza shot her a cautious look and turned back to the man before posing her response, in Arabic.
The man seemed to hesitate, his eyes shifting back and forth between Miza and Ariana. After what felt like an eternity, he pushed back the sides of his curly salt-and-pepper hair with his thick fingers and said something that seemed to make Miza soften a little.
The conversation continued in Arabic, leaving Ariana alone with her dizzying thoughts. There was no question about it. She simply had to get out of this place, and sooner rather than later. There was obviously nothing here for Rachel, who, oddly, instead of huffing around impatiently like she usually did, appeared to be in her own little world, aiming her lens at who knows what. What was she seeing that Ariana wasn’t? Ariana placed her empty cup on top of a tarnished tray and pushed herself up from the tiny stool.
“You need some handbags?” The man paused in his conversation with Miza to flash a creased smile in Ariana’s direction, grabbing two straw purses from a hook. “Take them. A gift from me.”
Ariana stood in the darkness of the shop as the words of her father rang in her ears. If you go there, you are asking for trouble. It is like going to someone’s house without an invitation. And on top of them came the words of the watchman. They won’t come out unless you disturb them. She backed out of the stall and into the sunlight. As charming as this shopkeeper might be, she had the distinct feeling he might possibly be someone to mess with the jinn.
“Careful!” Hani warned a little too late as she backed right into him, her stacked heel landing smack on top of his sandal-clad toes. He steadied her and then turned his attention to the big bear of a man, stepping up into the stall to greet him with three nose-to-nose touches, a custom she had noticed among the men of Oman. To Ariana, it seemed slightly unsanitary. Finally, after a little more of the usual back and forth, Hani uttered the words she longed to hear. “It is time to go.”