The Last Indigo Dyer in Bahla
My guide, Nabeel, and I were on our second day of driving and most of our excited conversation had resigned to periods of drawn out silence. The radio wasn't catching a signal, so the quiet hum of tires marked each mile of flat highway that stretched beyond the horizon line. The path was marked by palm trees and the occasional rest stop, where I would refill my coffee and Nabeel would refill his soda.
We continued on and with each moment of passing silence I grew sleepier, the caffeine no longer feigning adrenaline but producing a dull ache that was starting to settle in my temples. I balanced the small cup of coffee in my left hand as my right elbow found the ledge to the door handle and I gave in to tiredness, the parched palm trees outside of Nabeel's Kia slowly fading to black.
I woke up to the screech of Nabeel's parking brake and for a moment was completely disoriented. A massive fort enclosed by a mud wall sat framed in the front windshield and a market teemed with purveyors and shoppers to my right. We were back in civilization and the hum of energy enlivened me far more than the coffee still somehow perched in my lap.
"We're in Bahla and if we are lucky we can see the last traditional indigo dye-maker here, but it is doubtful. I don't want to get your hopes up but let's see."
We emerged from the car and snaked through the lively crowds that clustered in front of storefronts made of wood planks and mud. I felt Nabeel keeping tabs on me as we made our way through, ensuring that I hadn't followed my eyes into one of the many narrow alleyways that fissured from the main path of the souq.
We passed artisans of all kind - men hammering copper into intricate patterns while keeping casual conversation with one another, women at the helm of looms and round stovetops - each in their own respective world of craft and seemingly so comfortable in their pocket of expertise.
The crowd grew sparser as we made our way through and finally we broke off from the main footpath and ducked into a wide, deserted alleyway. I looked at Nabeel for further direction and registered disappointment on his face - a small, wooden door framed by mud stood in front of us, boarded shut.
Nabeel muttered something and pulled out his cell phone, then began rapidly speaking to whoever was on the other end of the line. He got off the phone as quickly as he got on and turned to me, the edge of disappointment in his eyes gone.
"He's coming back."
Nabeel and I waited for a half an hour outside of the shut door, shifting weight and exchanging words about our respective homes, our plans for the next day and the weather patterns set to descend in the coming weeks. Our conversation lapsed as a man emerged from the main alleyway, dressed in a neatly pressed white robe and matching cap. He introduced himself as Amer and began thumbing through a set of keys, fitting one into the rusted keyhole ahead of him. The door swung open and he hopped the short lip, gesturing us to follow suit.
I ducked in after Nabeel and removed my shoes before stepping onto the straw mat that canvased Amer's workspace. Although the door stayed propped open behind us, the thick mud walls muffled the sounds of the souq and created an illusion of distance between us and the crowd. Acting as both a sound barrier and backdrop to Amer's practice, the wall in front of us wore a patina of indigo splatter that tinted both the mud and clusters of straw that poked out from its worn surface.
Below, neatly arranged plastic jars filled with chunks of indigo sat next to three cauldrons that bore into the ground, each containing a vat of compounds that corresponded to a step in the dye process.
For the next hour Nabeel and I watched Amer in his motions - sifting chunks, stirring the cauldrons and occasionally gesturing for us to peer into the depths of rich indigo that developed below ground. At some point Nabeel stepped out for a phone call, leaving Amer and I in a prolonged silence bound by both our language barrier and the nature of his practice.
Eventually, Nabeel stepped back in and we migrated to the back of the room where a large chest sat underneath a shelf of worn rags. Amer opened it and began pulling out variations of his work - silk scarves, cotton tablecloths, remnants of cheesecloth - all dyed in degrees of indigo that bore a distinguishable mark. I sifted through each piece, collecting a small pile for myself and friends as I watched my fingers turn blue from the compounds that had yet to settle.
Once I had exhausted the trunk's supply, Nabeel and I said our goodbyes to Amer and emerged from his enclave. We retraced our steps through the souq, now weighed down by bags of indigo cloth. We arrived at the square and Nabeel excused himself to find a bathroom before we got back on the road.
I stood in the middle of the market, surrounded by the same wooden storefronts that had woken me, most of them now pried shut for the day. I shifted the weight of myself and the bags and continued to wait for Nabeel.
"I'll just be a moment and then we need to get back on the road. Wait right here." he had told me in a fatherly tone, checking his watch as he disappeared down a narrow footpath in front of me.
A small kitten choked down a bowl of dried anchovies next to my feet - castaways from the fish market that had been held hours prior in the courtyard behind me. The kitten seemed to be moments old, possibly younger than the remnants it stood on.
I waited with the kitten and the anchovies and the far off chatter of vendors closing up shop, registering the sounds that would echo in my head on the silent road ahead.
