I am working in Oman (just east of Saudi Arabia) and at the moment I am in the strangest place possible – a Radisson hotel. I am sequestered in this white cube of Western architecture because, as everyone knows, thinking critically is one thing, but vocalizing criticism is a sure sign that you’re over-worked. Therefore, I needed a break. But a Radisson is about as Omani as a Bush is freedom-loving, so as far as clearing my head and experiencing the peaceful, proud and friendly Muslim culture, I might as well join the Oil Management Program that’s masquerading as a Liberation just three hundred kilometers north.

I’ve been in Oman for 32 days. No, not four and a half weeks – 32 days. When we work, we work straight-through. What day it is, what week it is or what month all cease to matter – unless you get lippy. It’s a heads-down, time-for-money march that has its winter equivalent when I make withdrawals and exchange time – ultimately the more valuable of the two – for money. “Mountain safety for seismic exploration” is our official euphemism.

We are ScreeWalkers. We go through expensive boots like a locust killer does pesticide. Mile after mile, we shepherd those who would otherwise hurt themselves through some incredibly hazardous, 35-degree terrain. (By the way, I stumbled across this incredibly lush oasis in the middle of the Maradi desert the other day. A few of us are throwing in some money to build condos for chlorine-pool-preferring fat people. Wanna throw in?)

Check out the CIA World Fact Book – good for more than just hyperbolic oxymorons – and you’ll read the following: “Oman, natural bodies of water, 0.” In a league with that nerds-in-hell-“hot-enough-for-ya?”-FarSide cartoon, it was 46C in the shade the other day. They say it’ll break +50 before we ship out at the end of June.

A few years ago I made the mistake of going to Penticton – center of the Canadian Sahara – in July. While Phil and Daryl did their best to acquire cancer and phone numbers on the beach, I sat under a big tree, kept my shirt on and read a book. In a moment of comedic genius, Phil made the connection between myself and Powder, the okay-but-not-great movie about an albino kid raised in a basement who had special mental powers and a strong aversion to sunlight. For reasons other than the ones I choose to believe, the name stuck.

So how does Powder do in the desert? I sweat like a bastard. Despite working out and eating some bacon everyday, I’ve lost nine pounds. My work pants – which really, for a cool experiment, aren’t going to be washed until July 1st – are so encrusted with salt they can almost stand on their own.

But the human body – even an albino one – is truly an amazing thing. When we first arrived, my metabolism felt as challenged as Dubya in front of a microphone. In contrast, my ability to adapt is well-developed, and I am shocked to say that +40C has become a reasonable scree-walking temperature. And 25C at 6am actually feels cool. My also-Canadian friend Greg has taken to wearing a toque each morning “until it warms up.”

Once out on the jebel – the Arabic word for “pile of crumbling rock with barely a cliffband at the top” – the intensity of the heat is offset by the beauty of a stark unhuman landscape. At first squint, the Maradi desert looks lifeless. Like Saskatchewan in the winter, it’s beautiful in a Zen Nothingness-kind of way. But there is life out there. Camels are a slow-rambling dime a dozen, and small herds of hamals – a donkey that looks identical to Eddie Murphy’s incarnation in Shrek – dart left and right with fish-like synchronicity. Sidewinders leave perfect, continuous wave markings in the sand. And vultures make a daily habit of circling over the head of the Dehydrated Whiteman.

Despite my lack of melotonin, it is truly good to be here. I’ve learned how to tie a soaked shemag – the Arab headscarf so featured on CNNd-of-the-World-News – and to treasure the slow drip down the back of my neck. I can properly pronounce as salaam aleikum, and my total Arabic word count is around twenty. In 30 days of working with Omanis, I’ve developed a still-largely-ignorant, but strong respect for the Muslim culture. Social mores seem based on pride and respect, the right way and the wrong way – a pattern of thought that I am partial to.

So, although I see more and more why my Dad should write Business Practices That Suck, in calm moments I realize how fortunate I am to be here. Perhaps I can let go of some business-practice idealism in exchange for the experience… and a phat day-rate.

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