Faces of Oman
I came to Oman for the incredibly diverse nature: the vast desert, the scenic coastline, the mountain oases, the canyons, and limestone cliffs. And although I was able to see all of these amazing landscapes in one week-long trip, these weren’t the things that stood out most to me.
Instead, it was my encounters with the people of Oman and their hospitality that truly defined the journey. It was the man who poured me coffee outside of the Bimmah Sinkhole and the older gentleman who showed me the traditional khanjar knife outside of the Nizwa souq before dawn. It was the hotel owner who showed me around his family’s farm in Misfat al Abreen and the vendors inside the Muscat fish market just after sunrise.
Two things you’ll notice in these photos:
Lack of Women
There was a definite gender divide when it came to photographing Omanis. Nearly any man I approached was warm and willing. Women, however, were extremely private which I, of course, completely respected.
Omani Attire
Across Oman, traditional dress is not reserved for special occasions. The traditional attire is worn daily. The dishdasha, a long flowing robe in white or muted tones, is as common on a Monday morning at the fish market as it is at a wedding. The men wear either an embroidered kuma (cap) or wrapped mussar (headscarf) atop their heads, and at their neck, a small tassel called a furakha hangs from the collarless dishdasha. The tassels are not merely decorative, but they are commonly scented with perfume to keep the man smelling fragrant.
At the waist, some men wear a khanjar, a curved ceremonial dagger that is so central to Omani identity that it appears on the country’s flag. To see it worn casually, on a man walking around the souq is to understand that the tradition here is not performance, it is pride.
Every visit to Wadi Shab (the popular canyon known for its turquoise pools and steep limestone cliffs) begins the same way: a short boat crossing from the parking lot to the trailhead, operated by men who make this journey dozens of times each day.
I was the first one in the parking lot this morning in February 2024 and after waiting until 2 others arrived, we made the quick 2-minute water taxi journey across the river.
This man said nothing as we crossed, just sat with the quiet confidence of someone completely at home on the water. When I asked if I could take his photo, he just smiled slightly and agreed. Behind him, the canyon walls rose on either side. It was a reminder that places like Wadi Shab aren’t just natural wonders, they are also the backdrop of someone’s workday.
It was just after seven on a Monday morning outside the Muscat fish market, and the day was already fully underway. Boxes were being unloaded, voices were calling out, and the smell of the fish was potent in the air.
This older gentleman stood to the side watching, still and unhurried, while the work moved around him. When I raised my camera, he nodded in approval and he held my gaze without expression.
Unlike the sea of white dishdashas I’d seen elsewhere in Oman, the men in this market had their own color palette: deeper blues, tans, mauves. Perhaps practical. Perhaps just preference.
Later, reviewing my video footage, I caught this man walking past me humming to himself, unhurried and unbothered.
This man was the security guard at Bimmah Sinkhole, sitting on a blanket by the parking lot with his coffee, his dates, and a small silver bowl of water. When he called me over after I finished exploring, I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect.
Little did I know, he was about to give me a masterclass in Omani hospitality. The welcoming ritual, traditionally practiced when hosting guests into an Omani home, includes washing your hands with water, grabbing a handful of dates, then being given a small cup of Omani coffee, this time, poured from a thermos. He explained each step carefully, including how to shake the cup gently when you’ve had enough.
The sinkhole, a stunning collapsed crater filled with vibrant turquoise water, was a few hundred feet away. And yet, this was much more interesting.
It was just before dawn outside the Nizwa souq, and a group of about twenty men were gathered in the darkness to informally trade khanjars (the traditional Omani curved daggers) and old rifles under the warm glow of string lights. I stopped, curious about this scene and noticed that I was the only woman, as well as the only foreigner, present.
When I approached the group, this man welcomed me in, picking up one of the khanjars from the stone bench they were using as a table. He held it up so I could look more closely and proudly posed with it for a photo. I always feel honored when someone wants to let me in and show me their culture so clearly.
Misfah Al Abriyeen is a small village nestled in the mountains of Oman’s interior. Here, agriculture is intertwined with daily life and it’s a place where the ancient falaj irrigation system still feeds terraced farms growing dates, bananas, and pomegranates on the hills.
The two brothers who owned my guesthouse were also beekeepers, farmers, and honey shop owners (a family of many trades). I took a morning tour with Ali, one of brothers, where he took me on a walk to their farm that morning to show me how it all worked. This man was someone we passed along the way. He and Ali exchanged a few words; I assumed that in a village this small, everyone would know everyone. Then he continued walking uphill, a massive bundle of grass balanced on his head with the ease of someone who has done it a thousand times.
Nizwa’s souq is known for many things: its silver, its khanjars, its dates, but pottery may be the best souvenir. Ceramics line the outside of the shops, floor to ceiling inside, each one slightly different from the last in pattern and color.
I spent far longer than planned in this shop, genuinely unable to decide. Everything was handmade, everything unique, and I’m generally quite indecisive anyway. Eventually I settled on three cups, two for me and one as a gift — the ones shown in this photo. My favorite detail is the indent right where you place your finger when holding the cup.
This man was behind the counter ringing me up. I asked if he was the artist and he stated that he himself didn’t do the pottery, but his family did. When I asked to take his photo, he smiled and held them up, as if to say: good choice.
It was 7:37 on a Monday morning at the Muscat fish market, and I was the only foreign visitor there. Vendors were still arranging their catch and the market had that specific quiet of a place not yet fully open to the world.
That morning I was handed coffee I didn’t ask for, offered fish to hold up for photos, and pulled behind a stall to learn how to cut a maco shark by a man who thought this was perfectly normal hospitality.
This vendor was quieter than the others, but still incredibly friendly. As I walked past his stall, he caught my eye and smiled first: an easy, open invitation.
After the fish market, a friendly vendor who had appointed himself as my unofficial guide led me next door to the vegetable market, determined to show me every corner of Muscat’s morning market scene.
This man was sitting quietly by his stall, reserved in a way that stood out among the morning’s more exuberant characters. When I asked for a photo, he didn’t smile. He just raised two fingers, making a peace sign, and held my gaze.
It was early evening near the Nizwa souq when I spotted this young man sitting exactly as you see him here, the motorbike leaning against the wall beside him, just relaxing and watching the world pass by.
I liked the composition immediately — his crisp white dishdasha against the textured yellow wall — ancient tradition and a modern motorbike living in the same space without any contradiction. When I asked if I could take his photo he shrugged his agreement, seeming generally indifferent. He stayed exactly as he was. No performance, no wide smile, just a quiet okay.
I found this fellow sitting alone near the port, a plastic bag beside him with what looked like a fish or two inside: his morning’s purchase, presumably. A tiny kitty had just rubbed against my leg as I approached, likely extra friendly because I smelled like the fish market I had just visited.
The man wasn’t particularly pleased when I asked for a photo, though he allowed it. It’s a reminder that not every portrait is a warm exchange. But ultimately, I’m glad he tolerated my photography.
The longer I looked at the image, the more I noticed, like the decorated tan dishdasha with its embroidered front, the gray striped shirt layered underneath, and the tall kuma sitting higher than most I’d seen. His feet had slipped free of his black leather sandals and his face held the kind of seriousness that comes with age and a life lived mostly outdoors.
Oman is the most underrated countries I’ve ever been and definitely the Middle East’s biggest hidden gem.