Camel Roadblocks and Luxury Resorts: The Digital Nomad Life in Oman

A Hidden Gem at the Base of Arabia

My cubicle today is a swimming pool, the temperature of which is lukewarm—which, along with the sea breeze off the Gulf of Oman, feels exceptionally refreshing on a cloudless afternoon that has the mercury here in Muscat, Oman’s capital, flirting with the century mark.

It’s a peaceful place to be a writer. A digital nomad.

This journey to the bottom of Arabia was my idea. I’ve always wanted to see this place…some unknown affinity I have for Arabic culture. Best I can reason is that it’s my mom’s fault.

She was single and couldn’t really leave me alone at the apartment as a 9- or 10-year-old back in the day, and so she’d haul me to her belly-dancing classes. I learned to perform the “klutzy camel” before she did, and had to teach her the move.

Probably about as good a reason as any to harbor a lifelong addiction to Arabia. And probably why I grew up to be a travel writer so passionate about sharing the world, and so passionate about telling others how to pursue a similar life as a self-employed nomad.

Of course, one is never certain what will happen when expectations meet reality. Sometimes it’s magical. Sometimes not so much.

I can now report from experience that Oman leans heavily toward the magical. It feels like what I think Southern California probably was like circa-1930s—only with 21st century amenities.

The place is dry and deserty, as one would logically expect on the Arabian Peninsula.

Rocky, gray/brown mountains press up against the backside of Muscat. The Gulf of Oman, a very attractive sea, rolls up onto the city’s front door.

Palm trees are everywhere, but so are leafy deciduous trees. And verdant, green grass in places. The Muscat Expressway is six lanes of freeway better than lots of freeways I’ve driven in the U.S.

The roads in Oman are excellent, though the obstacles are somewhat different than you’ll find in the U.S.

There’s a stretch of Interstate 405 between Orange County and San Diego, and I swear some Omani highway engineers are guilty of geographical copyright infringement. I found myself hung up in a traffic jam because of a wreck here, and I spent those slow moments taking mental note of the roadside attractions. There was a McDonalds, Pizza Hut, and KFC—the conquistadors of American cuisine. Not far away, an IKEA—the grand dame of European consumerism.

Kinda resembles home a bit.

The key difference is that the architecture of the buildings is much more Arabic, obviously. And, well, all those Arabic signs that I can’t read.

In short, Oman is comfortable. Quiet and underpopulated. People are friendly. The food is nice, particularly if you’re a fan of Middle Eastern cuisine and pastries, as I am. (Again, Mom’s fault. She taught me how to make baklava.)

And the high-end hotels here are not to be missed, if what you really want in a getaway is exotic relaxation.

My hotel in Muscat boasted truly world-class facilities…a perfect place to alight for a few days as a digital nomad.

I chose the Chedi Muscat for the early part of my journey. I’ve known about the small, Chedi chain for years. First visited one in Andermatt, high in the Swiss Alps about a decade ago. I saw the quality and the attention to detail, and I immediately knew this is where I wanted to lay my head and spend a couple of days as a digital nomad.

It’s a low-rise campus of white, cabana-like buildings, Arabic in flavor, set on its own along the beach, several miles outside the main city. The rooms define “luxury hotel.” Lots of dark hardwood. A bathroom for two and a sunken, black-stone bathtub big enough for a couple to share.

There are four sounds you hear at the Chedi: waves rolling in; wind rustling palm fronds; various birds chirping; and water tinkling as you pass various fountains spread across the lushly landscaped property.

That’s it. Nothing else.

Which, frankly, makes this moment as a writer in a lukewarm-temperature swimming pool so perfect. No distractions—other than an amazing sea view and the pool-bar waiter who remembers me from dinner last night and referred to me as “Mr. Jeffrey” when he stopped by to set up a poolside daybed for me to lounge on.

I wanted this dispatch to be much more Lawrence of Arabia, exploring exotic sands. Instead, I feel more like Papa Hemingway, holed up in a Havana hotel, writing, probably by the pool, wondering why more of his countrymen don’t spend their days relaxing in such a comfortable location.

But soon I’m driving out through the rocky mountains toward a city called Sur in the southeast of Oman. Maybe Lawrence is waiting there. I’ll let you know.