Monde Magnifique

“Are those fake bullets that you use for the wedding, or can they actually kill someone?”, I ask, pointing to the rifle being twirled by a twelve year old with a moustache.

Mohammed laughs, “What do you mean? No, they’re real. We’re not supposed to use them because some neighbours complained last year about bullets falling on their roof, but you know...”. He shrugs and cocks one eyebrow.

I am in Sohar, northern Oman at the behest of my friend Mohammed. Three of his brothers are marrying local women as part of a Bedouin wedding extravaganza.

I arrive in the evening after the bacchanalian ordeal of feeding an entire village. Remnants of goat carcass piled atop crumbling rice mountains are being removed by caterers from the edges of a massive patchwork of carpets covering a sandy vacant lot. Around 200 Omani men are scattered across the rugs, their white dishdashas punctuate the red and brown hues like supine mushrooms with distended bellies. Women are noticeably absent.

Musicians interrupt the post meal chatter, dusty hands coax camel skin drums to a persistent throbbing. Fifty Omani men face each other in parallel lines. They chant collectively, twirling slender a’asa canes over their shoulders. Their necks lurch back and forth, swathed heads synchronously bobbing together. Mohammed explains that this is the raz’ha, an ancient form of poetry where two opposing rows of men exchange verses.

The music carries a swirling amalgam of men to the centre of the rugs, rotating counterclockwise. The mob moves in time with the beat, clutching an assortment of deadly weapons. Children wield enormous swords, intricately engraved with islamic patterns. Men intermittently fire rifles skywards in a oblivious rain of bullets.

I am enchanted by the spectacle unfolding before me. The rhythm of the drums, the taste of dust in my mouth, the ancient chanting. Excitement bubbles forth, erasing the inhibition of being an outsider.

I tug Mohammed’s sleeve and blurt out my request, “I oh my God I want to fire a gun! I’ve never done it before in my life”.

He dips his hand into the dizzy throng and plucks a gun from the crowd, handing it to me.

“Just point it in the air and fire”.

“Really? That’s it?”, I ask.

I raise the butt to my shoulder, pull the trigger and watch the flare illuminate the night before my eyes.

I think about the bullet raining down on a rooftop on the other side of the village, but do not care. I have joined the tribe.