S
everal days into a trip to Oman,
my father and I pulled into a fl y-
bothered cafe on the coastal highway
to Sur. We were in Tiwi, a seaside fi shing
village near one of the country’s most
mouthwatering gorges, Wadi Shab. Lined
with terraced plantations and pea-green
pools, the ‘gorge between the cli s’ is a beaut.
The plan was to grab a few photos before
continuing southeast.
That was when we met Said.
Said was a local Omani boy — maybe 16
years old, tall for his age, wearing a cap,
sandals and toothpaste-white dishdasha
robe. Matter-of-factly, he approached us
at our rental car and o ered to guide us into
the gorge.
“First swim. Then walk. Then swim, then
walk, then swim,” he said.
Swim? Dad and I looked at each other.
Said didn’t seem like a tourist guide and he
didn’t ask for a fee. Two possibilities played
out in my mind — one involving a headline
reading ‘Gullible father and son hacked into
2,317 pieces in Omani gorge. Wallets
missing’. But there was something about
Said’s manner, about the moment in which
his o er came, that felt good in my gut.
When I was a kid, Dad might have taken
this decision for us. But I wasn’t a kid any
more. This was the fi rst big trip we’d taken
together as adults. We’d had our share of
ups and downs so far; our moments of
connection and our moments of fi st-
clenching irritation. We’d gotten lost in the
souqs of Muscat and wondered at the clouds
of butterfl ies on mountain roads. We’d slept
inches from each other in grotty hotels;
passed unhelpful remarks on each other’s
driving habits. I’d gotten food poisoning and
lost my lucky hat. He’d been eaten alive by
mozzies. By the time we got to Tiwi, on thefar eastern coast, the holiday could have
gone either way.
Dammit, we said, let’s do this.
Said nodded and set o with a long stride,
leading us away from the car park and into
the gorge. He stayed about 20 yards ahead,
texting and playing Bob Marley loudly
through his phone speaker. The cli s rose
higher and tighter around us. The terraces
ran out. Phone signals fl ickered and
vanished. A er 45 minutes or so, the path
stopped and we stood metres above a stream.
Said produced a plastic bag, motioning at
us to put our phones inside, and held it over
his head as he waded into the water. I fully
expected never to see him again. But we
followed, in sandals and shorts, stepping
over rocks and between reeds, picking our
way through a canyon that grew thinner and
taller with every step. We swam, and walked,
and swam and walked, fi nally coming up
against a rock face split by a tiny crack that
felt like the width of a human head.
“Through here,” he said.
Said disappeared into the slit. Hearts in
mouth, we swam a er him. Our heads fi tted
the fi ssure like keys, and we doggie-paddled
forward, banging shoulders and ears o the
increasingly claustrophobic walls. Nightmare
scenarios began playing out in my head:
skeletons being discovered; mothers weeping.
Stupid trip! Stupid me! Stupid Oman!
Then we emerged into a cool pool in a
cave. A smashing sound turned out to be a
waterfall. The endorphins fl ushed. We
paddled, jumped o a ledge, whooped,
high-fi ved and tried to shoot photos in the
semi-darkness. Said stared at us in
bewilderment, and we felt guilty for doubting
him. Looking at each other on that ledge,
in that moment, I think it’s safe to say we
were back in the groove. WORDS BY PÓL Ó CONGHAILE
OMAN
ABOUT A BOY
Pól is an award-winning
travel writer and editor
based in Ireland. Ever
since he got lost on
the Moscow metro
(don’t ask), he’s been
passionate about
travel — and his many
adventures have taken
him around the world,
from the gorges of
Oman to the guitar
shops of Nashville.
@poloconghaile76 natgeotraveller.co.uk
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