Assalamualaikum and may peace be upon you.
Our Muscat–Mutrah Day Tour unfolded with a journey through Muscat City, leading us to remarkable landmarks: the Royal Opera House Muscat, the majestic Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque, the cultural treasures of Bait Al Zubair Museum, the regal Al Alam Palace, the serene Palace Beach, and the scenic Mutrah Corniche - culminating at the vibrant Mutrah Souq. Each stop was a gift of joy and wonder, leaving behind unforgettable memories etched deeply in both heart and mind.
Maher, ever attentive and gracious, perhaps sensing that we would appreciate a brief rest after a day of tour, brought us cups of the delicious Karak Tea - rich, steaming, and fragrant. Its aroma rose like a tapestry of Oman itself: the boldness of black tea mingled with cardamom’s floral spice, cinnamon’s warmth, ginger’s subtle fire, and the lingering depth of cloves.
As I savoured the smooth blend, I felt the tea become more than a drink; it became a vessel of memory. The spices seemed to echo the rhythm of the souq, the grandeur of the mosque, the salt air along the Corniche. With every taste, moments of discovery returned - my first steps into Oman’s heritage, my gradual immersion into its culture, my quiet awe at its resilience and beauty.
Tea and memory intertwined, each awakening the other. For me personally, the Karak Tea was not just refreshment; it triggers beautiful warm memories of wonders of Oman I experienced, and to carry its gifts within the heart long after the cup was empty.
As the sun began to set, we wrapped up our tour with hearts full of memories. Muscat and Mutrah had given us a day of discovery and wonder, a fitting finale before our flight home later that night. As I busied myself, desperately capturing images of what would be our last glimpses of Oman from inside the car, Maher made suggestion, “Shall we make a short stop at one of the sand hills?”. He did not have to ask me twice.
Sunset Over Muscat
The sun leaned low on Muscat’s roads,
gold spilling across palm and stone,
cars drifting like quiet thoughts,
each moment a farewell, each glance a gift.
It was my last day,
yet the city gave me its finest light -
a tapestry of wonder and calm,
woven with joy, tinged with longing.
I knew I would miss it:
the Corniche’s curve, the Souq’s hum,
the mosque’s grandeur,
the sea breathing against the shore.
Years from now, I will return in memory.
Photos revisited, blog lines reread,
each image a key, each word a door
to the day Oman welcomed me.
And sometimes, in a quiet Arab café,
a cup of Karak Tea before me -
warm, spiced, familiar -
I will sip and smile,
while frankincense drifts from the corner,
its sweetness carrying me back.
Then the memories will rush in,
not with sorrow, but with gratitude:
sunset over Muscat,
forever etched in heart and mind.
The sand hills Maher mentioned was the Bousher Sands Valley View Point, with its high vantage overlooking Muscat’s sweeping panorama. It was the perfect place to pause.
Upon arriving Bousher Sands Valley View Point, we were delightfully surprised to see groups of bird enthusiasts gather on the sandy hills to fly their parrots.
At the edge of Muscat, where the city’s minarets rise like slender fingers against a pastel sky, a sandy hill becomes a stage. The air hums with anticipation as bird enthusiasts gather - tripods planted, whistles poised, arms outstretched.
Then, with a sudden burst of color, the parrots ascend. Macaws unfurl their wings like painted banners, streaks of scarlet, cobalt, and gold cutting across the horizon. They circle above the gathering, weaving arcs of freedom against the fading light.
For a moment, the city pauses. Cars idle below, the mountains watch from a distance, and the sky itself seems to widen to hold this spectacle. The parrots are not wild, yet they carry the wildness within them - each beat of their wings a reminder of jungles far beyond Oman’s desert edge.
And then, as if choreographed by memory, a whistle pierces the dusk. One by one, the birds descend, returning to the arms that raised them. Owners smile, their silhouettes softened by the glow of sunset, as feather meets hand, and the circle closes.
The "MUSCAT" sign, the landmark of the capital.
It is not falconry, nor ancient ritual, but something new: a hobby born of affection, a community stitched together by flight. Here, on Muscat’s sand hills, tradition and modern leisure meet in the sky - heritage echoed in falcons, joy reborn in parrots.
On Muscat’s sand hills, the parrots remind us that heritage is not only preserved in museums or souqs. It is also alive in the laughter of children watching the birds descend, in the pride of owners whose training has borne fruit, in the spectacle of color against desert light. Here, continuity takes wing: falcons of the past, parrots of the present, and the enduring bond between people and the creatures they call home.
Comparison: Falconry vs. Parrot Free-Flight in Oman.
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| 🦅Calm beneath the hood, the falcon waits - an emblem of Omani heritage, trained for centuries to hunt and serve. 🦅Unveiled, the falcon’s eyes pierce the horizon - echoing the Bedouin tradition where survival and skill were bound to its flight. |
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| 🦜Scarlet wings folded in pause - parrot free-flight is not ancient ritual, but a modern joy, painted in color. 🦜Bright feathers against a simple perch - companionship and spectacle replace the hunt, as parrots soar for happiness, not survival. |
The evening sky blushes pink and lavender, and laughter rises with the wings. Parrots perch on shoulders, arms, even daring to crown their owners’ heads with cheeky confidence. Their feathers gleam like jewels, but it is their playful nature that shines brighter - nibbling at fingers, tilting heads with mischief, testing the patience that is always met with affection.
The owners respond with gentle care. They extend their arms not as cages but as invitations, offering trust, warmth, and the promise of return. Each whistle, each call, is not command but conversation, a language of love between human and bird. In their eyes, pride mingles with tenderness, for these creatures are companions, not trophies.
Watching them, I feel a pang of longing. The parrots’ antics remind me of my own tabby - his soft paws kneading cushions, his gaze steady yet playful, his presence a quiet anchor at home. The birds return to their owners just as he once returned to me, weaving joy into the ordinary, reminding me that companionship is both freedom and belonging.
When the macaws rise above Muscat’s skyline, their wings carve arcs of color against the fading sky. They see the city from above - roads like threads, domes gleaming like lanterns, the horizon stretching endlessly. In their flight is exhilaration: the joy of release, the thrill of possibility, the world opening wide for a moment that cannot be held but must be lived.
I feel the same when I travel. Each departure is a lift into air, each new street or souq a wingbeat of discovery. Like the birds, I taste sights, sounds, and scents with a sharpened awareness, knowing that these moments are fleeting. The joy is intangible, yet it lingers - precious precisely because it cannot be owned, only experienced.
The macaws rise above rows of cars, their wings catching the pastel sky. From above, the city looks orderly, almost small, yet the birds feel the vastness of air. I, too, feel this when I travel - leaving behind the familiar, seeing the everyday from a new angle, realizing that freedom is not about distance but perspective.
The parrots glimpse neon signs and bustling roads, symbols of modern life. To them, it is scenery; to me, travel often reveals the ordinary dressed in new light. Even the familiar, a busy street - becomes part of the adventure, reminding me that joy is found not only in the exotic but in the way we see.
From the sandy rise, the birds launch into sky, their owners watching with pride. For me, this is departure: the moment of release, when the horizon opens and possibility feels limitless. The hill is both anchor and springboard, just as home is both comfort and departure point.
The birds sweep over highways, weaving through the geometry of roads. I see in this the rhythm of travel - intersections, choices, paths converging and diverging. Each journey is a map of possibilities, each turn a chance to discover something unexpected.
Golden domes and tall minarets gleam beneath the birds’ flight. For me, this is the moment of awe: standing before architecture that speaks of history, faith, and continuity. Travel is not only movement but reverence, a pause to honor what endures.
As the parrots descend, the dome glows like a beacon. Their return mirrors mine: journeys end, wings fold, and gratitude settles. The joy of exploration is fleeting, but the memory is precious, intangible, carried home like light in the heart.
The birds fly, explore, and return. I travel, wander, and come home. Both journeys are momentary, yet their joy is endless - an intangible treasure, proof that horizons are limitless even when flights are brief. Whether feathered or human, freedom is sweetest when it circles back to belonging.
As I stood there, perched by the sand hill with the group, I saw the metaphor where each stage of the macaw’s flight mirrors the stages of my own travels.
The Macaw’s Flight, My Traveler Journey
The Release – The Departure
The macaw lifts from its owner’s hand, wings unfurling into the open sky. In that moment, it is pure departure - an embrace of possibility, a leap into the unknown. I feel the same when I leave home: suitcase packed, heart light, the horizon calling. To go is to taste freedom, to step into the wide world with joy swelling like wind beneath wings.
The Soaring – The Exploration
High above the sand hill, the macaw arcs in color, tasting the air, mapping the sky. Each turn is discovery, each beat of its wings a new perspective. My travels echo this soaring - streets alive with sound, markets fragrant with spice, landscapes unfolding like pages of a book. Sight, sound, and smell become companions, and happiness is found in the sheer act of being elsewhere, alive to difference.
The Signal – The Longing
Then comes the whistle. A sound sharp and familiar, cutting through the freedom of flight. The macaw hears it, feels it, and begins to turn back. For me, too, there is always a signal: the quiet tug of memory, the thought of home, the awareness that journeys are not endless. Longing threads itself into joy, reminding me that every exploration carries within it the seed of return.
The Return – The Homecoming
The macaw descends, folding its wings into the arms that know it best. Its freedom does not vanish - it transforms into belonging. I, too, return home after travels, stepping back into familiar rooms with a bittersweet heart. There is sadness in the closing of distance, in the end of flight. Yet gratitude lingers: for the places seen, the moments gathered, the continuity of home.
The Continuity – The Gratitude
Bird to owner, me to house. Both of us tethered by love, both of us reminded that freedom is sweetest when it knows where to land. The cycle completes itself: go, feel happy; return, feel a little sad but grateful. In the macaw’s flight, I see my own journey mirrored - a dance between release and return, between joy and tenderness, between the world and home.
As we made our way back to the hotel, and later to the airport, the memory of that unplanned parrot free‑flight lingered. It felt like a gift offered by the city itself - unexpected, vivid, and perfectly timed.
The birds rose in arcs of scarlet and gold, their wings catching the last light of sunset. Behind them, Muscat’s skyline shimmered, domes and towers softened by the evening glow. For a moment, the air was alive with color, movement, and joy.
It was the best way to remember my last few Oman moments: not in grand monuments or planned itineraries, but in a fleeting spectacle of feathers and sky. A reminder that travel’s greatest treasures are often unanticipated - the joy intangible, the gratitude enduring.
Like the parrots returning to their owners, I too returned home with a heart full of flight.
To be continued.
Till the next coming entry, inshaAllah. Meanwhile do take care.
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