Oman’s Masirah Island is trying really hard to be a tourist destination, but the unfortunate truth is that this little island’s stock probably peaked in 324 B.C., when Alexander the Great’s admiral, Nearchos, named it “Serepsis” in his nautical log.
Due to its extremely saline soil and rugged coastline, the island didn’t lure too many many human setters — until British and American military leaders decided to use it as a strategic foothold in the Strait of Hormuz (the waterway that separates Oman from Iran). With the sultan’s permission, Great Britain established a RAF base on the island in the 1930s.
In 1975, Oman offered use of the island to the United States. Shortly thereafter, Masirah served as a staging ground

Alexander the Great's admiral, Nearchos, noted the island in his nautical log during an expedition to the region.
for the failed attempt to rescue 52 American hostages from the embassy in Tehran. In 1990-91, the U.S. once again made use of the air base on Masirah to launch an offensive against Iraqi forces after Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait. Currently, the U.S. maintains a low-profile presence on the island, by way of the private military contractor DynCorp, which holds the contract for staffing the base. A few satellites were visible from the deck of the ferry, as we approached the island’s small harbor — but I never saw any flags or other markers suggestive of a military presence.
The ferry ride took approximately one and a half hours, but that was after we spent over an hour waiting at the mainland dock in the Bar al Hikman area of Sharqiyah Region. Since moving to Oman, I’ve gotten a lot better at waiting for undefined periods of time. Fortunately I had Dot and Faisal to keep me company. I tried to practice my Arabic over the overpowering roar of the ferry’s engine. We were sitting next to the boat’s sole life raft, designed to accommodate 20 passengers. I estimated that the ferry was carrying three times that number.
On deck, Faisal struck up a conversation with two Masirah residents who were headed back to the island for a friend’s wedding. Their dialect was quite heavy, but I understood enough to hear them mention something about sea turtles. Knowing that Masirah is a prime nesting ground for the endangered loggerhead species, I asked them if they had seen any turtles lately. The two young men proceeded to explain in some detail how one should go about slaying, shelling, and cooking the creatures. Horrified, I tried to explain that creatures in danger of “inqiraadh” إنقراض really shouldn’t be eaten, but the language barrier once again got in the way of an effective argument. Losing interest in the righteous Americans, one of the Masirians (is that a term?) pulled out a glass vial contained a desiccated, leafy substance and dispensed some of it into a pipe. Faisal assured Dot and I that the young men were only smoking something perfectly benign. I was skeptical, and vigorously shook my head when they offered the pipe.
We arrived in the small harbor of Hilf, and promptly met up with Faisal’s college friends, Mahmoud and Sultan, for a tour of the island. Masirah is so small (95 km long from North to South), that it takes around an hour to circumnavigate by car — if you are driving as fast as the average Omani, that is. We stopped at a few deserted beaches and a rocky lookout. I thought that the tranquility of the island was a welcome respite from the malls and hypermarkets of Muscat, but Sultan and Mahmoud seemed bored with the island lifestyle. I can’t blame them — Masirah’s population is less than 12,000, and entertainment venues are scarce. In hindsight, I would have packed a tent, because we ended up staying in a less than hygienic hotel named “Serabies,” which appropriately sounds like a strain of rabies that you catch from seahorses. The hotel lobby was haphazardly decorated with an incongruous mix of faux-mahogony panels, nautical paraphernalia, victorian-ish still lifes, and a chenille tapestry featuring H.M. himself.
After a surprisingly good night’s sleep in a room that smelled like sulphur, I woke up early for another outing with Faisal, Dot, Mahmoud and Sultan. The kindness of Faisal’s two college friends was overwhelming, and more than made up for the lackluster hotel. Every time we passed a general store, they insisted on stopping to purchase a bulging satchel of packaged goods and beverages — more junk food than we could consume in a month, but it was a nice gesture nonetheless. We had to stop the car occasionally to make way for some slow-moving dromedaries. I never get tired of these camel-in-the-windshield photos, especially when the image includes a pink, dangly heart doodad.
After one last spin around the island, we said goodbye to Sultan and Mahmoud and boarded the ferry for the mainland, vowing to purchase a tent before our next expedition.













