F
locks of camels lope beside the road as
we head inland to see the source of this
legendary resin. Our guide, Hussain, stops
for us to marvel at the camels, and it turns
out they eat dates, too, as we discover when one pokes
her long-lashed head through the open window of our
car. Save the date!
The small, rather scraggy frankincense trees
grow wild in harsh, stony soil, and most notably in
the protected Wadi Dawkah, about 40 kilometres from
Salalah. As Hussain shows us, the resin is harvested by
scraping off a swatch of the papery bark and making a
small cut. The sap that instantly bleeds out is left for a
few days to harden before it’s collected, destined to be
graded and sold for incense or distilled into essential
oil, attributed with all manner of mystical and
medicinal benefits.
East of Salalah lie the ruins of the ancient port
of Khor Rori, also known as Sumhuram, and the
fabled palace of the Queen of Sheba. Overlooking
the beach and a natural harbour, it was once a trading
post for the then-swashbuckling nation and a landmark
on the frankincense trail. This was the destination of
laden caravanserai and the departure point for their
cargo on sailing ships bound for the Mediterranean,
India, and other Eastern kingdoms. Signs in the maze
of crumbling stone walls, now only a few metres high,
pinpoint the sites of homes, workshops, a temple and
a “monumental building” inside what were once
imposing city walls. Inscriptions in old Arabic mark
the founding of the port, dating back to the 4th
century BC. Sadly, they make no mention of Sheba,
immortalised in the Qur’an and the Bible – and her
presence here remains the stuff of legend.
Later that evening, Salalah’s Al Hafah Souk is
buzzing and the frankincense stalls are the busiest.
The vendors drop little nubs of the resin onto charcoal
in terracotta burners and prospective buyers wave the
fragrant smoke towards their noses to appraise its
quality. Haggling and joking ensue. Many then wander
to Lialy Hadrmout, a Yemenite restaurant that serves
grilled skewers and flatbread that’s slapped against the
inside of a cauldron-like fire pit to cook.
Back at the resort, after a meal overlooking
the beach, groups of men gather on the terrace to
smoke shisha. Once they’ve chosen a flavour from the
menu, perhaps grape and mint, the waiter disappears
to prepare the tall hookah pipes and re-emerges with
them locked and loaded. The sound of bubbling and
banter makes a soothing soundtrack to a moonlit
view of the Arabian Sea. It’s a kind of peace in the
Middle East.
The next day at the airport before our departure,
we head to a shop to buy camel-milk chocolate. Unable
to decipher the flavour on a pack, we ask for help from
the shop assistant. “Dates,” she laughs. “Surprise!”●134 GOURMET TRAVELLER