The Extraordinary, Overwhelming, and Often Unbelievable Natural Wonders of Oman

This article is part of Dinogo, A Retrospective. In celebration of Dinogo’s 15th anniversary, this piece was chosen by the editors and cofounders as one of our top 15 favorites. We hope you enjoy it as much as we do.

At a college party in Wisconsin, a boy asked me where I was from. Although I was born in India to Indian parents and had spent a year in high school in Palatine, Illinois, along with eight months in Ontario, I typically answered 'India.' If I wanted to wrap up the conversation quickly, I’d mention 'the Chicago suburbs.' But something about his expression encouraged me to share more, so, with a racing heart, I said, 'Oman.'

He squinted and leaned closer, cupping his hand around his ear. 'Did you just say you’re from the moon?'

Suddenly, memories flooded back: low-hanging mountains, a deep blue sea, tawny-gold sand dunes arching like a creature’s back, endless date palms lining smooth, newly paved roads, houses filled with the scent of frankincense. Muscat, the capital: a peaceful, white-washed city by the harbor where I had grown up. And then there was the heat: the oppressive, stifling heat. My parents’ warnings to dress modestly and to always, always be cautious around men. My small, suffocating life revolved around school and home.

I left Oman for the States at 16; that was 16 years ago. Since then, immigration has transformed me into someone different. I learned to ride a bike, pitch a tent, run meetings, and stand my ground. Yet, the fear instilled in me—stemming from inexperience, overprotection, and growing up as a South Indian in 1990s Oman—has left a lasting imprint. Being taught to avoid risks, especially to my precious self, changes a person. Being conditioned to rely on adult men for driving, planning, paying, and ensuring my safety shapes you, too.

As the plane descends now, I recall that moment from so long ago at the party. How I had humorously said, yep, that’s where I grew up, the moon, before stepping into the chilly night air, feeling both amused and melancholy. Now I’m traveling through space, heading toward the moon. On my tray table lies a list scribbled on paper: sinkhole swimming, wadi hiking, mountain climbing, snorkeling. The itinerary intimidates me. I’m afraid of heights, I have the upper-body strength of a ten-year-old, and only about 40 hours of driving experience. But finally, I’m returning to Oman to seek adventure, test my limits, and see what I can achieve. To gauge how far I’ve come from the girl who had never crossed a street alone.

Our plane pierces through the cloud cover. Hanna, a close friend and my travel companion, squeezes my hand, but I can't bring myself to look at her; my eyes are stinging. Outside the window, I catch a glimpse of my old city’s lights, sparkling darkly beneath me.

Oman has been a hub of trade routes and warring tribes since at least 1500 B.C.E. In ancient times, it was a maritime empire with sailors celebrated worldwide. The frankincense mentioned in the biblical account of Jesus’ birth likely originated from Oman, then known as Magan. In modern history, Oman remained one of the least recognized countries, grappling with Portuguese control in the 1500s and 1600s and British rule from the late 1800s until 1951.

The discovery of oil in 1964 and the 1970 coup that brought Qaboos bin Said to power marked a turning point. Under Qaboos’s leadership and fueled by oil wealth, Oman underwent rapid modernization. Today, it is a thriving nation of 4.5 million people, often referred to as the Switzerland of the Gulf due to its diplomatic relations with Washington, D.C., Beijing, Tehran, and Jerusalem.

Muscat is a city adorned with whitewashed buildings, its coastline sprawling out like a feast, and the Hajar Mountains providing a protective backdrop. At the airport, Hanna and I book an Otaxi, Oman’s equivalent of Uber. Exhausted from travel, I observe the blend of the familiar and unfamiliar racing by, feeling the juxtaposition of ancient and modern.

On our first day, we indulge in shawarma from Al Istanboly, my cherished favorite: tender lamb enveloped in garlicky toum sauce, nestled in flatbread with french fries. We visit city beaches where the water feels like a warm bath. I stroll through my old neighborhood of Al Khuwair. On the second day, we explore my former school, where I once faced punishment for receiving a Valentine’s Day card from a boy, a teacher’s watchful eye catching me. It’s the place where I was scolded for laughing too loudly, speaking my mother tongue, and fainting in the heat. I share these memories with Hanna as we stand on the soccer pitch, where boys played while we girls kept our distance, arm in arm, away from the action and the presence of men.

On the third day, I awaken to the nearby mosque’s call to prayer echoing through the dawn. My body tenses with anxiety. Can I handle the adventure ahead? My thoughts drift to my limited driving experience and the unknown roads. Hanna, a true Renaissance woman—a data scientist who weaves rugs, sings in a folk choir, and speaks four languages, including Arabic—doesn’t drive. The weight of responsibility for our trip and our safety rests squarely on my shoulders.

It’s all right, I reassure myself. At the airport, I finalize the rental car agreement, feeling a mix of nerves and determination.

Muscat has its charm, but Oman’s true treasures lie in its natural landscapes beyond the city. The two-hour drive from the capital to Bimmah Sinkhole winds through curvy roads and valleys, with the marbled and rugged Hajar Mountains flanking us. I reflect on the quiet, reserved child I once was, yearning to explore the world and experience its beauty firsthand.

According to legend, the sinkhole was formed by a meteorite, which inspired the name Hawiyat Najm—meaning “falling star.” However, geologists argue that the sinkhole resulted from the ongoing dissolution of limestone and the collapse of the overlying rock, creating a cavity filled with turquoise waters. The sinkhole spans over 200 feet in width and reaches depths of around 65 feet.

Dressed in a wetsuit and water shoes, I descend a staircase to the water’s edge. Families and young men gather around, laughing and splashing each other across the sinkhole. While men are shirtless, women mostly keep their limbs covered. I step cautiously into the water, my feet slipping on the rocks as I’m taken aback by the chill. The water laps at my thighs, shifting between milky and jewel-toned blue. Just go for it, I encourage myself, feeling a mix of shyness and a realization that I'm challenging the gender norms I was raised with—a woman swimming among men. With that, I dive in.

The water feels cold, salty, and refreshing against the heat. I float on my back, and Hanna and I swim to the center of the pool, chatting with a young Indian woman who works as an aesthetician in Muscat. She’s lively and attractive, swimming in a tunic and pants, adorned with bangles. Her husband, she mentions with a toss of her head, is on the other side, engaged with a group of men excitedly discussing a Pakistani cricket match. I watch Hanna scale a rock ledge before diving in—a white splash against the deepest blue.

The following morning, we rise early in Sur and set off for Wadi Shab and Wadi Tiwi, two narrow canyons filled with natural pools, limestone formations, and waterfalls. Wadi Shab is closer, about a 40-minute drive from Sur, and features a shorter hike of miles.

At Wadi Shab, we pay one Omani rial, roughly $2.60, to a boatman who ferries us across a narrow river dotted with lily pads to the sandy entrance of the canyon. We hike deeper for two hours, occasionally wading through shallow waters. We pause to capture photos in front of ancient limestone formations and caves, attempting to avoid the 15 or so others also exploring. The water glistens jade green, bordered by guarri bushes and date palms. Though the heat is intense, I feel a sense of pride as we tick off items from our itinerary with confidence. We complete the hike, triumphant, and await the boatman to take us back to our car before heading to Wadi Tiwi.

Further inland from Wadi Shab, Wadi Tiwi is a 22-mile-long gorge that winds from the Hajar Mountains to the Gulf of Oman. We’re undecided on whether to drive or hike it. Daoud, an Omani I chat with at a gas station, mentions that a “strong person” can traverse Wadi Tiwi in “14 hours on foot,” but warns that it can test anyone's limits. His friend Bader, a kind-eyed captain in the Omani coast guard, advises against hiking today due to the recent rains, which have turned the usually vibrant blue and jade water into a dangerous brown. “You could get swept away,” he cautions.

Despite the challenges, Hanna and I conclude that we could still drive to Mibam village within Wadi Tiwi and hike to the waterfalls. I switch the car into four-wheel drive, awakening a new power in the engine. We plunge forward into shin-deep water and over gravel roads, embarking on our journey.

The road constricts, ascends, narrows further, and ascends again. It has become barely wider than our SUV, without any guardrails to shield us from a sheer drop. Another vehicle approaches, and with neither of us having room to pass, I back up until I find a spot with enough shoulder to let it go by. Once the first car clears, I attempt to proceed again, only to be thwarted by another car, one that isn’t shy about honking its way through. Sweat begins to bead all over me.

“You can do this,” Hanna reassures me. “What will we do if you can’t? Just turn around?” I’m tempted to turn back, rethink our itinerary, and come back with enough rials to hire a guide. But fueled by pride and urgency, I press on. Then, as we tackle a particularly steep incline, the car starts to roll backward. A wave of terror washes over me, and I hit the gas, steering the SUV to the roadside, battling nausea and frustration. “I need a moment,” I tell Hanna tersely, and she nods. I bury my head in my hands, taking deep breaths.

Moments later, a vehicle filled with five Omani men clad in traditional dishdasha robes pulls up. All I can manage is a tight smile as I focus on my phone. Hanna, rolling down her window, begins to converse with them in a poetic, albeit limited, Arabic. “She’s afraid of the car,” she explains, gesturing toward me, “and the car is afraid of the mountain.”

The men hail from Fins and Izki and are traveling together to celebrate the Muslim holiday of Eid. One of them, Yasser, is familiar with Wadi Tiwi and offers to assist us. He hops into our vehicle and drives the remaining hour and 20 minutes to Mibam. The road twists sharply, jolting us as we navigate. Primitive homes and patches of greenery punctuate the landscape. Upon reaching Mibam, they accompany us down the concrete steps leading to the waterfalls. The usually serene teal waters are now a frothy brown, churning from recent rains. Yasser cautions us to keep our limbs away from the rushing current to avoid being pulled in.

Afterward, the group insists we join them for a picnic beneath the palms. They exchange WhatsApp numbers with us and share pictures of their families. Sitting on their rug, they offer us dates, water, coffee, watermelon, and mangoes. I reflect on how such a scene would have been entirely unimaginable in the patriarchal environment I was raised in.

An hour later, storm clouds begin to gather, prompting us to pack our things. Yasser drives us back to Route 18, with his friends following in their car. Once we return to the coast, overwhelmed with gratitude, Hanna and I express our thanks to these men. They encourage us to reach out during our next visit to Oman, promising to pick us up from the airport, show us their hometowns, and introduce us to their families. Their warmth begins to dissolve something within me—perhaps it's the narrative of the world I once left behind.

The following day, I embark on a four-hour drive toward Jebel Akhdar, known as Oman’s “Green Mountain.” The ascent from the mountain's base to our hotel presents the steepest challenge I've ever faced. To my delight, I discover that I've truly leveled up.

Navigating hairpin turns at ski-slope angles, I tackle the road with eagerness. Our plan is to spend two nights at Alila Jabal Akhdar, a stone-walled hotel offering luxurious rooms and breathtaking views. While in the mountains, I’ll be putting my endurance to the test with some climbing.

Alila features a via ferrata route, the highest protected passage in the Middle East. This Italian term for “iron way” consists of steel rungs bolted into rocky faces, connected by thick steel cables. The cable winds up and across a mountainside, leading into a cave, and then transitions into a tightrope walk across a chasm, culminating in a hidden second cave.

Our guide, Mahmood Alamri, from a nearby village, teaches me how to secure my harness and outlines the safety measures for this two-hour course. "At all times, your harness will be attached with two carabiners to the steel cable, which can hold over three tons of weight," he assures us with a smile. "So, you’ll be just fine." I start climbing, with Hanna on my right and a Saudi woman launching an outdoor adventure company on my left.

My biggest challenge is keeping my legs straight while leaning my entire body back into the abyss. My limbs ache, but it’s my mind that struggles most, trying to convince me that taking risks is a bad idea. Breathe through it, I remind myself, you’re secure, just look at the view—it's incredible, no, stop looking, focus on the next step, you can do this. My heart races and my muscles burn, but after 50 minutes, I finally stagger into the first cave.

This is when we notice an iron-gray storm brewing in the distance. It’s evident we need to alter our plans. The via ferrata is generally very safe, but it turns out that being clipped to a massive steel cable during a lightning storm is not one of those contexts.

Alamri and his two assisting guides lead us up an emergency route back to Alila. This climb is significantly shorter but far more demanding due to its steep vertical ascent and the rain-slicked rock faces. I endure ten minutes of the most intense physical effort of my life. Gasping for air, I reach the end, unclip from the cable, and dash toward the hotel to find shelter.

As I turn to gaze at the mountainside under siege by the storm, I don’t feel the expected disappointment of having my plans changed. In truth, this embodies the essence of adventure. Sometimes setbacks are handed to you; other times, you encounter the sublime.

The world dims, then shifts to a violet white. Another rumble of thunder echoes through the air. The canyons and peaks are painted in bruise-purple against a tea-green sky. A thousand tiny sounds explode around me. In an instant, the landscape is strewn with marble-sized pellets. Hail in the desert.

The Daymaniyat Islands are a cluster of nine uninhabited islands located 26 miles from the coast of Muscat. To explore the coral reefs surrounding them, Hanna and I embark on a 45-minute boat ride to the bay northeast of the main island. We spot humpback whales in the distance and let out excited shrieks.

The boat drops anchor. I’ve never snorkeled before, and my heart races slightly as I strap on my flippers and adjust my mask. Yet, in a way, I feel calm. What’s one more experience that pushes my boundaries?

I descend from the boat, swim out, and then float on my back, absorbing this incredible world in disbelief. On clear days, the underwater visibility exceeds 70 feet. The water is clearer than glass, radiating a blue deeper than precious gems. My heart races with joy and adrenaline as I glide above unbleached coral in deep purples and soft marigolds. I spot a green sea turtle seven feet beneath me and swim alongside it, filled with an indescribable tenderness for it and for all the vibrant life in this new, alien environment.

On the return boat ride to Muscat, a realization washes over me. Visiting ancient sites compels one to confront loss—of the place, and of one's past self. I mourn the young person I was, filled with fear, vulnerability, and loneliness—yet this grief is intertwined with a sharp, powerful joy. Because she transformed into someone confident, capable, braver, and freer. This understanding dawns on me as the boat vibrates, and I watch the shoreline I once called home come into view, prompting tears to flow. I have returned to the moon, finding it both familiar and profoundly altered.