Blood Test

Now that all the official documents have been stamped and approved by the Ministry for renewing my working visa, the penultimate task is the dreaded blood test.

This involves:

Navigating a treacherous highway, winding your way through narrow alleyways towards a decrepit old building which looks like something from a war movie, battling through thousands of other ex-pats to wait in a long queue for more official stamping, being presented with a small plastic jar, taking the small plastic jar to a doctor upstairs which instigates more official stamping of the aforementioned plastic jar by the aforementioned doctor, before finally having a small amount of blood extracted from the forearm by a grumpy nurse for the purpose of making sure you don't have a hideous incurable disease.

You'll notice from the picture that the vast majority of ex-pats in Oman are in fact Indian. (The queue you see here would usually double back on itself like a snake many times over, but I seemed to strike lucky this time, perhaps because of Ramadan). They provide most of the essential transport and building labour for the rapidly growing infrastructure in these areas. There are also lots of Philipinos, who tend to work in retail and childcare.

And then of course, there's the trusty Brit, seen here on the left. Such is the importance of British people and their higher standing in the socio-economic scale in Muscat, that they don't have to do mundane things like queue when there is a perfectly obedient Omani Public Relations Officer who will do that for them. Brits tend to provide teaching expertise and roles in high level management within the oil business (which is huge out here).

I of course am a Scot, and a Blipper, and therefore, I queue.