A day in the life of Kirstie

We had hiked for days in the rural areas of Oman, it was exhausting. I was not familiar with this scorching weather, despite having immigrated to Saudi Arabia 2 years prior to this trip. The whole time I’d been there I’d been searching for an extraordinary scene to capture through the lens, but the surroundings were repetitive as we strolled past various mountains and lone goats occupying the sand, which may I add was extremely draining to travel on.
We must have been on our well and truly enervated feet for 8 hours before we eventually reached our campsite, which of course had to be situated on another dreaded mountain. However, this one was unusual, I witnessed quilts hanging from rooftops as though a bear had been making a den, the type we made as children at home with duvets and boxes. The first thing that came to mind was, how on earth do such materials end up here? It wasn’t exactly a tourist destination, I mean; we were coming here to complete our Duke of Edinburgh Award.
We arrived at the top. I sat and absorbed in the view. It was ideal, the peacefulness, the lack of movement. I leant back and sighed, just like my granddad did after his Sunday roast in his golden, frayed armchair gazing out of the window to admire the world from the comfort of his own home.
It took a while for me to realise, but I heard a sound, a child’s laughter. I went to, I would say investigate, but what was to investigate? So I will say explore. As I got closer I heard a very complicated language. I hinged myself on to branches so that I did not fall. I came to the conclusion that this was a village, it made sense, the quilts attached here and there, the laughter. I felt slightly nervous approaching them, they could think I’m a threat, I could be shooed off like a filthy rodent, after all I hadn’t showered properly for over five days so they could’ve easily mistaken me for one!
A woman. She was wearing a midnight black burka; her identity was a mystery to me. Here I was, standing face to face with her, expressionless. She stepped towards me, lifted her arm out and gently stroked my hair, she whispered, although it sounded more like an echo in comparison to the quietness of our surroundings, “Mashallah”. The smoothness of the woman’s voice sounded angelic to me, I felt warm inside. Mashallah? Mashalla... I knew this. Mashallah meant, “Whatever god wills”, and it was a compliment. A sign of relieve escaped from my lungs. I was welcomed, and I was intrigued.