Grahamstown local, Thomas Boughey now teaches English in Oman in the Middle East, and writes about his experiences there so far in this first installment of a two-part series. In the second installment, he compares their education system to the South African one and wonders what measures could be taken to improve learning in our country.
Welcome! Welcome! beams the friendly customs official at Muscat Airport in Oman. First time? he asks. Yes, I reply in trepidation. You like, you like! he exclaims, grabbing my hand and giving me a firm handshake. This little exchange, perhaps a bit reminiscent of Sacha Baron Cohen’s Borat, is my first introduction into the Sultanate of Oman.
Like South Africa, Oman is renowned for the hospitality and friendliness of its people and I could not have had a friendlier introduction into the sultanate. After exchanging my rands into foreign currency, always a disheartening task for South Africans, I am instructed to look for my taxi driver. He will drive me to the small rural town of Ibra in the Sharqiya region, about two hours from Muscat where I will commence a position at the University of A’ Sharqiya.
Mr Mustafa the taxi driver is perhaps a little over-zealous in his desire to get to Ibra, with the needle on the speedometer hovering on the 180km/h mark, but coming from South Africa I am used to cavalier taxi drivers. After a long flight I fall into a deep coma and I’m asleep for the two hour journey on the highway.
Upon arrival, I experience my first panic of my journey, with one of those classic ‘What have I done?’ moments. I feel like I've landed on Mars with no escape. The landscape is arid and barren and the soil has a reddish tint to it. For the first time it dawns on me that I am in the Middle-East. The University of A’Sharqiya has spared no expense in putting me up for the night in the luxurious Ibra Motel. A flea-pit on the edge of the desert actually, but in my jet-lagged state I'm too tired to care.
As I walk into the reception area I see a middle-aged bearded man in a dishdasha (a long, white traditional robe worn by men in the Middle East) reclined on a couch in the foyer. He appears to be watching italCSI: Las Vegas/ital dubbed into Arabic. Mr Mustafa utters some harsh obscenities in Arabic and then dumps my bags in the foyer. The disgruntled bearded man emerges from the couch and signs me into the guestbook. As I sign the book I feel more aware than ever that I am left-handed, a disposition which is frowned upon in certain parts of the globe. The Latin word sinestra means left-handed and is a word usually associated with unsavoury or nefarious characters. There is nothing worse than a sinister infidel, I think to myself, as I collapse exhausted on my bed.
Two months into my adventure in Oman, I am now pleased to say that I have moved out of the Ibra Motel and have been given my own flat in a complex with a group of expat teachers from a diverse range of countries. The little remote town of Ibra is simple, yet strangely endearing at the same time. Ibra is surrounded by wades, oases and the vastness of the desert. There is a real romanticism about living here, the kind of romanticism I have read about in the adventures of the famous British explorer Wilfred Thesiger.
Grahamstown local, Thomas Boughey now teaches English in Oman in the Middle East, and writes about his experiences there so far in this first installment of a two-part series. In the second installment, he compares their education system to the South African one and wonders what measures could be taken to improve learning in our country.
Welcome! Welcome! beams the friendly customs official at Muscat Airport in Oman. First time? he asks. Yes, I reply in trepidation. You like, you like! he exclaims, grabbing my hand and giving me a firm handshake. This little exchange, perhaps a bit reminiscent of Sacha Baron Cohen’s Borat, is my first introduction into the Sultanate of Oman.
Like South Africa, Oman is renowned for the hospitality and friendliness of its people and I could not have had a friendlier introduction into the sultanate. After exchanging my rands into foreign currency, always a disheartening task for South Africans, I am instructed to look for my taxi driver. He will drive me to the small rural town of Ibra in the Sharqiya region, about two hours from Muscat where I will commence a position at the University of A’ Sharqiya.
Mr Mustafa the taxi driver is perhaps a little over-zealous in his desire to get to Ibra, with the needle on the speedometer hovering on the 180km/h mark, but coming from South Africa I am used to cavalier taxi drivers. After a long flight I fall into a deep coma and I’m asleep for the two hour journey on the highway.
Upon arrival, I experience my first panic of my journey, with one of those classic ‘What have I done?’ moments. I feel like I've landed on Mars with no escape. The landscape is arid and barren and the soil has a reddish tint to it. For the first time it dawns on me that I am in the Middle-East. The University of A’Sharqiya has spared no expense in putting me up for the night in the luxurious Ibra Motel. A flea-pit on the edge of the desert actually, but in my jet-lagged state I'm too tired to care.
As I walk into the reception area I see a middle-aged bearded man in a dishdasha (a long, white traditional robe worn by men in the Middle East) reclined on a couch in the foyer. He appears to be watching italCSI: Las Vegas/ital dubbed into Arabic. Mr Mustafa utters some harsh obscenities in Arabic and then dumps my bags in the foyer. The disgruntled bearded man emerges from the couch and signs me into the guestbook. As I sign the book I feel more aware than ever that I am left-handed, a disposition which is frowned upon in certain parts of the globe. The Latin word sinestra means left-handed and is a word usually associated with unsavoury or nefarious characters. There is nothing worse than a sinister infidel, I think to myself, as I collapse exhausted on my bed.
Two months into my adventure in Oman, I am now pleased to say that I have moved out of the Ibra Motel and have been given my own flat in a complex with a group of expat teachers from a diverse range of countries. The little remote town of Ibra is simple, yet strangely endearing at the same time. Ibra is surrounded by wades, oases and the vastness of the desert. There is a real romanticism about living here, the kind of romanticism I have read about in the adventures of the famous British explorer Wilfred Thesiger.
