“Ohh, let’s stop here and stock up”, Mrs J was as excited as a child on Christmas morning - and just as loud.
After a very zen drive on the road from Mirbat, her excitement was heart-attack inducing. I had watched the rolling green hills with their grazing cows and goats in amazement, realizing that they reminded me of home. That is, until a large herd of goats would crowd the road, led by an old Omani woman beautiful in her traditional dress, carrying a newborn baby goat in her arms. That’s when the similarities stopped. In the low afternoon sun, everything looked so soft and peaceful that I was sure Mozart must have written his piano concerto no 21 after visiting this place.
It was therefore a bit of an insult to my senses and zen mood when Mrs J pointed to a small building with an impressive signboard - ‘Commercial Market’. It seemed so out of place.
“Commercial market? Isn’t that a bit like having a sign saying ‘tooth dentist? Or ‘food restaurant’ or, or..” I couldn’t come up with anything else. “Aren’t all markets commercial? Isn’t that the sole purpose of a market? To exchange goods for money?” I had worked myself up to a good rant and gone was my zen state of mind. “And don’t even get me started on the word ‘market’. Why are all shops in this country called markets? Whatever happened to ‘shop’ was plain and simple. It’s not like we are out in the open on a Saturday in the 1800 century, strolling around at a Farmers Market. It’s a shop. If it was on a corner, which it is not, it would be a corner shop!”
Mrs J looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “Finished? Can we go in and get some milk now?”
We parked and walked towards the shop, me still mumbling to myself about hypermarkets and inflated sense of grandeur, and Mrs J was telling me to hush. Outside the shop were several old plastic washbowls and handleless buckets and near the door boxes of empty Vimto bottles.
Hassan looked up from his phone as we entered his shop. “Welcome”, he beamed. The shop (or market) was an Aladdin’s cave of stuff you might need if you live 130 km from Salalah and this is your only shop, and stuff you never thought you would need. Ever. Down from the ceiling hung bunches of onions next to crocheted muzzles meant for snapping camels, homemade plywood shelves tempted you with everything from Chips Oman to Chinese plastic flip flops. Fresh milk.. not so much. Hassan shook his head and pointed us towards the tinned variety instead. Although fine for our tea, the stuff tasted horrible with cornflakes. I’m just telling you.
Hassan waited patiently while we ahh-ed and ooh-ed our way through his selection on display. He was originally from Kerala, but now managed this splendid commercial market with a customer base of 10 houses, he told us. “How did you end up here?”, Mrs J asked with a sweeping arm movement to include all 10 houses spread out for miles. He just shrugged and smiled.
We were interrupted by the little cowbell over the shop door announcing another customer. The man greeted us warmly and quickly picked up a carrier bag full of groceries and left. Hassan opened a wooden drawer with only a few 100 baiza notes and a well-worn black notebook. He tapped his pen a few times and flicked through the pages before he meticulously entered the date, name and amount. Out here people still bought ‘on account’. Hassan knew everybody, their likes and dislikes, and kept a tally of everybody buying on credit. At the end of the month, Hassan would wait for them to come and settle their tab. He knew who struggled, he knew who prospered and he knew who showed kindness and paid someone else’s bill without expecting anything back in this life. This was how small communities worked.
A loud commotion outside caught our attention. A young goat herder in worn army boots and a cloth bag slung over his shoulder had ‘parked’ his herd in the car park. Literally, a hundred goats were bleeding and pushing each other to get to the bowls and buckets of water, while their herder went inside to get a top-up card for his phone.
“Corner shop, indeed”, Mrs J grinned. This is truly a local watering hole, an oasis for the famished”.
I smiled to myself. I knew she wouldn’t be so poetic the next morning when all she had to breakfast was cornflakes with tinned milk.
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