One Month of Abalone

November 2007

You have one month a year to make it big in Hasik — 30 days in which to elevate yourself above the anonymity that comes with living at the furthest corner of a dead-end road, sandwiched between mountains and ocean. For centuries, the only way in and out was by boat, and that changed only over the past few years, when the road to Hadbin was finally blasted through the base of cliffs. That road, of course, goes nowhere, and when you get there you will find yourself at Hasik.

It is such atmosphere that makes heroes out of men diving for abalone off the coast. Ali Musallam Bakheet is 20 years old, and tells us of his hero over lukewarm tea while we sit on plastic chairs in a restaurant full of empty shelves. "The best catch ever was by Said Bakheet Suleimi in 2004. He came up with 84kg of abalone in a single day — worth RO4,500. One day's earnings got him a villa in Hasik." That amount of money is the average for an entire season for most people, while Ali makes much less, gathered on the weekends he spends here after attending college in Salalah.


Control, demand and supply

"I was first exposed to abalone when I was a child, watching my father from my house, just a couple of meters from the sea. It was all a game to me then, and wasn't as serious to my father as it has become now. 15 years ago, a gunny bag that held 5-8kg of abalone would get you one rial." That was before the glory days of export that Hasik and a lot of Dhofar's southern coast is now basking in. In the old days, abalone was more for a bit of half-hearted domestic consumption. You could have it grilled on the fire, salted and boiled, skewered and dried. Or sell a bag for one rial. Now, the markets average RO60 for every kilo that can be exported to the Far East.

Prices started rising in the 1980s, reaching the all time high of RO75 a kilo in 1998. And the lowest? "This year," says Ali, "November 2007. We're at RO50 now, if you accept cash, and RO55 if you're willing to accept credit." Prices have averaged around RO60 through the decades, influenced by foreign demand and local control. Such local factors are also the reason why the prices have dropped so far down, as Ali points out. "Last year, the main middleman here who had a lot of control over prices died. Now, everyone is undercutting the competition, and we're getting less for our catch." He peters off towards the end, afraid to reveal too much.


Protecting shellfish and markets

Abalone diving might begin to seem like a heady free-for-all, an entire coast of inviting deep blue. It could very well be, except then there wouldn't be any abalone left for anyone and the waters would sour. So the government imposes limitations, allowing the shellfish population to build up its numbers again, in time for the next harvest. The season changes from year to year, generally around November. 2007 just finished its lone month, while the previous year's season stretched from November till December. And there are more rules. You can't dive using oxygen tanks, which means fewer people can participate, and cannot reach the molluscs deeper down. You cannot use a torch, which limits diving time to daylight hours. And most importantly of all, you cannot dive for abalone out of season. Breaking this rule might fetch you up to half a year in prison and RO500 worth of fine.

That just isn't worth it for most. The more adventurous have to evade the police and ministry observers who roam through Hasik, Hadbin, Sadha and the many diving spots between. At the least, you will be asked to produce your abalone diving license, only given to local residents above 18 years of age.

"Some people risk it and dive outside the season. This year, we're finding very little abalone, a possible result of pre-season illegal harvest. The black market price is only about RO30, because men control the price and also due to the fact that such catch is hard to forward."


Striking a very big deal

After two years of construction, an entire town of identical concrete villas has sprung up behind the existing rows of buildings that now make up Hasik. Over the next couple of years, all the residents will abandon their current homes and move beyond, making way for development that will sweep over the bay. Ali is a bit hazy on the details. "There will be a tourist resort here," he says, "and maybe a port. And an airport." That might be part truth, part wishful thinking, but the reality is that the entire population will be about a kilometre up-land, in brand new housing. And over the next four years or so, Hasik will no longer be a dead-end settlement. The road that now leads from Salalah will be extended, gnawing its way through the mountains northeast all the way to Shuwaymiyah, itself the southernmost town on the east coast connected to Muscat. Those 94km and RO68mn of road will put Hasik bang in the middle of the most virgin coastline to be fed by highway in Oman, with everything from abalone to tourism development projects up for grabs.

Relocating barely walking distance onwards might not be such a bad thing for Ali. Residents get to move out of the dilapidated construction half eaten through by sea air, into brand new villas for free. The new houses are nearly identical in design, and come in two sizes. The type you get depends on what kind of house you have been living in, and if it can't make up you might even be awarded money as compensation — in addition to the new house, of course.

It gets even better. If Ali were married and living with his parents, each family within would get a separate house. Which makes Ali wonder if he should tie the knot soon. It all seems connected anyway, because abalone is a legendary aphrodisiac. As Ali so tactfully puts it, "If you start eating safela you have to get married right away or you're in trouble." Hasik currently consists of 80 houses, but the new settlement will have 173. That adds up to a lot of abalone.


What Hasik left behind

Kilometres before the road runs out of steam west of Hasik, you can find remnants of the old village. They would have had to sail here in the old days, because the cliffs are nearly impassable, and the Jebel Samhan extends northward for far too long to make it worth it. Decades ago, a dirt track extended from Salalah till Hadbin, a backbreaking journey that ground differentials as easily as it hammered people into submission. It wasn't fun. And old Hasik might not have been either.

Now abandoned, you can still walk by the stone walls and gravestones that litter high ground overlooking the sea. Villagers lived here, storing fish and dates — their only income — in the handful of little caves that you will find to the right of a little wadi. You can still see the stonework guarding their entrance, but not much more. There were farms too, and you might find the last one baking in the sun, nothing more than a few date palms and wire mesh. The graves are older, some dating at least 800 years back, judging by the still-legible inscriptions on the stones.

Why settle 300km from the Salalah plain with your back to the cliff wall? While most interest today revolves around the sea, it might have been the raw mountains and wadis that were the real catch in ancient times. For the Jebel Samhan holds some of the best frankincense that Dhofar has to offer, and Dhofar was the centre of the incense trade in its glory days. This maker of kingdoms passed from the knotted trees that thrive in the mountains behind Hasik to cities and ports, and on to the rest of the world through sea routes and the Empty Quarter. Hasik and its coast might be the end of the road now, but there was a time when they might have been the beginning.



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