Just Back: beach football in Oman

Just Back: beach football in Oman
Sunset comes quickly here and sparks an Omani passion â€“ beach football

Angry shouts puncture the morning air. Heads twist to stare at two men in grubby dishdashas, nose-to-nose in furious confrontation. Beneath the stark, earthy battlements of Barka fort, they could be warring tribesmen from Oman’s turbulent past. Instead, their fingers jab towards fish writhing in a small motorboat as they argue about a stolen catch.

The argument fades behind us, replaced by bartering on the beach and hopeful gulls in the air. My friend Marc and I step over gutted fish entrails. Gaudy umbrellas fill the sky, casting welcome shade from the Arabian sun. It is March and already 45C.

Tourists stroll between the maze of boats, pulled high from the water. Cameras click incessantly. Then boys howl with laughter when they see their faces on an LCD screen. This is Barka fish market. The fish could not be fresher if we walked into the sea and caught them ourselves.

“Assalamu alaikum,” Marc says to an old fisherman. The man flashes a gap-toothed grin. His leathery face creases against the glaring sun. “Wa alaikum assalam,” he replies in gentle tones, wishing peace on us as well.

“Bikam?” Marc asks, bartering for tuna. This takes some time and involves much arm waving, horrified gasps, and even walking away, but Marc gets his fish with a look of triumph.

We drive by the towering fort where Ahmad Al Bu Said invited his Persian enemies to a banquet, fed them and then had them executed. Forts and watchtowers dominate the Omani skyline as much as the minarets, a reminder of battling tribes in this unassumingly beautiful country.

We are camped with friends on a beach nearby. By midafternoon, the delicate aroma of our fish is wafting from the barbecue, mixing with spiced goat, lamb and chicken with rice and bread. Groups huddle in the shade of palm trees, trying to stay cool in the punishing heat.

Sunset comes quickly here and sparks an Omani passion – beach football. Swelled by people from the nearby village, hundreds of players fill every available inch of the beach. Football shirts from teams around the world are displayed with pride, silhouetted against a blaze of orange on makeshift pitches. Cries of joy, anger, desperation and triumph fill the salty air.

Marc hands me a cold drink and we join the families cheering from the sidelines. We could be on the terraces on a Saturday in England. Then a ghost crab scuttles past my toes in the sand. Perhaps this isn’t Anfield after all.

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