Today, Somewhere on Earth is off to discover the Sultanate of Oman
in the south of the Arabian Peninsula. This is the Orient
of the Thousand and One Nights, which the Romans called Arabia Felix,
Blessed Arabia. It's also the land
of the once-nomadic Bedouins. Bedu in Arabic means desert dweller. Dhofar, in the far south of the country,
harbors a precious treasure, frankincense. Mohsin has a PhD in biology. He devotes most of his time
to protecting the frankincense tree. Two thousand years ago,
the inhabitants here made fortunes, and their influence spread worldwide
thanks to the frankincense trade. Saïd is a mountain Bedouin. He lives in the Hajar, a mountain range in the north
along the Gulf of Oman. Saïd is also a tree man. Like those who have gone before him,
he maintains vital contact with nature. Saïd lives his life according to the seasons
of his date palms. He takes care of them, for they're all he has,
and he lives right amid his trees. Ahmed and his son live in Balad Sayt
in the Djebel Al Akhdar, literally the Green Mountain. Greenery means water
and it's conveyed thanks to the falajs, an irrigation system
that was born 5,000 years ago when the farmers channeled spring water
to irrigate their crops and thus managed to thrive
in a barren, hostile land. Ahmed is an Arif, a water master, a guardian of knowledge,
and a living memory. We prefer to keep it
as it was in the beginning. Those who have gone before us
knew very well what they were doing. In ancient times, caravans would cross the deserts
of southern Arabia. The Rub' Al Khali, the empty quarter,
the desert of deserts, is situated in northern Dhofar. It's a natural frontier
between Oman and Yemen, Saudi Arabia and the Emirates. In this vast, immense expanse,
we are no more than minuscule particles, insignificant specks. When you're in a big city
and have people all around, you're caught up in the bustle
but here, not at all. We're fully aware
of how insignificant we are compared with the immensity of the desert. The desert is immense and boundless,
and we're very small in this world. I feel at home here,
I'm in touch with this land. The desert gives me serenity and peace. Mohsin's father was a man of the desert, and he transmitted to his son
the entire history of his people. The Bedouins
were originally nomadic herdsmen. Moving from place to place
with their camels, they had to face hunger, thirst, and the merciless sun. This parched earth,
with its sparse vegetation, wouldn't allow them to camp
in one place for very long. For those tribes, nomadism was less a way of life
than a simple struggle for survival. It was the Bedouins who long ago traced the caravan routes
through the heart of this vast desert. They would cross the boundless expanses
of sand with their precious cargo, frankincense. The historians say that the frankincense passed through here
and across the Rub' Al Khali. You can easily imagine
what a difficult voyage it was. Likewise, it gives you an idea
of how important frankincense was. It is so important that some people
would risk their lives on such a voyage. The Bedouins
would cover thousands of miles with their precious cargo. Even today, with all the modern means,
crossing the desert is not an easy task. Imagine what it was like
for the caravans back then. Frankincense was important. It was priceless. At the time, the difficulty of the voyage
increased the value of the frankincense. It could be worth its weight in gold. The fate of the nomadic tribes
depended on this treasure, which was in demand the world over. The story of frankincense
begins here in the Dhofar region on the southern tip of Oman. These wild trees are full of resin
with an unmistakable aroma, frankincense. Today, olibanum,
another name for this aromatic essence, is still a must. In the Dhofar region,
they burn it day and night. It's said to keep evil spirits away. It cleanses the atmosphere
and purifies the soul. It is used in the rituals
of a number of religions. Mohsin is the guardian of this legacy. His family has always owned trees. This is where the story
of frankincense begins, in the Najd, not far from Yemen. It's harvest time. Many say that the Najd
produces the world's finest frankincense. I wound the tree so it weeps. These are the tears of the tree. In order for it to produce,
I have to wound it again and again. The tree suffers,
but it's to make us happy. Of course,
this tree is specific to this region. This tree grows
only around the Arabian Sea. My responsibility
as an Arab from this region, our responsibility is to protect it, to see that the tree continues to thrive,
as other countries do with their plants. My favorite spots, the places I like to explore are those
where the frankincense trees grow in the mountains of Dhofar. I'm attached to the spots
where this tree grows. I've always liked them
ever since my childhood, and that's why I feel at peace
when I come to these places. Since he became a PhD in biology,
Mohsin has been rediscovering the Najd. It's a scientific
as well as a personal quest. I'm at peace when I'm out alone
in the middle of nature. It can be in the mountains,
in the deserts, or along the sea. I feel at peace. I feel that it's my place where I belong. I never get this feeling
when I'm in the city. Only when I'm away from it. The only way to get around
in this wild land is by foot. Certain parts of this broken terrain
are still unexplored. Mohsin devotes all his spare time to studying and understanding
the Boswellia sacra, the scientific name
for the frankincense tree. Frankincense runs in my blood,
in the blood of my ancestors, in the blood of our history. Our entire existence is bound to it. It's in our flesh. "All of Arabia exhales
an odor marvelously sweet," so wrote Herodotus, a Greek historian
who lived in the fourth century BC. If Herodotus was acquainted
with frankincense in ancient times, it means that olibanum
had already made its way across the deserts and seas. The frankincense routes
were either overland towards Europe or overseas towards India,
China and Egypt. Ever since ancient times, these roots have linked Oman
to the Mediterranean countries and to the Far East via the Indian Ocean. Dhofar earned a widespread reputation
as a frankincense exporter. [Arabic spoken audio] The Omani seafarers
became excellent navigators and gave the world
the first instruments like the sextant. Thus laying the foundations
of modern navigation. Frankincense has traveled far and wide. It has penetrated Asia
and reached the heart of China. It has crossed borders,
even the most tightly sealed. It has opened the gates
of unassailable citadels. Olibanum, this perfume of 1,000 mysteries, has even penetrated
to the heart of China's Forbidden City. The frankincense routes
relate this epic tale. They connected communities,
they wove bonds, united different peoples
and their cultures. Thanks to the caravans and the seafarers, frankincense has had a role to play
in the rites and prayers across the continents
and throughout the world. These ruins are a testimony
to a still-living legend. [Arabic spoken audio] Here, we're in the citadel of Samhuran, where the frankincense was exported
to the rest of the world. It's a historic port. The frankincense would leave here
for the far corners of Europe, the Mediterranean Sea,
the Far East, and China. [Arabic spoken audio] This port is a historical link
with other civilizations, the Greek civilization,
and the Mediterranean civilization. There is a reference to Samhuran
in Greek mythology. That shows that there were already
exchanges between this port and the major trade routes of the time. At the time, different civilizations were vying
for control of the frankincense trade. There were many military expeditions undertaken to find the source
of frankincense, by Alexander the Great, for example. The frankincense
of the Najd region is unique, and that's thanks to a microclimate
found nowhere else in Arabia. Once a year, Dhofar receives
the monsoons of the Indian Ocean, but the frankincense tree needs above all,
an arid, sunny climate. The hotter it is,
the more concentrated its aroma. The frankincense tree
needs a very specific climate. Humidity is not good for it. It can't be too cool, either. It grows in regions that are dry and arid,
but not totally desert. The seasonal winds
also play an important role. Mohsin is on his way to Manzala,
a few hours away. The name means land of trees. Mohsin knows a man there
whose tribe still owns 500-year-old trees. That man, a Bedouin as well, has worked all his life
in that remote region. I see you have a herd of camels. I need one for a few days. I have to go to Manzala. Let's go take a look, one might be right. One has to use a camel in this region. The trails are impossible for cars
or any other mount. Here, we packed everything we'll need, food, blankets, water, everything we'll need
for this week-long trip. At the bottom of the canyon
lies the legendary site of Manzala, a thriving frankincense market
in the Middle Ages. The merchants would come here to buy it directly
from the families who owned the trees. Then, another voyage would begin. Frankincense is known
throughout the world, yet the tree itself
remains shrouded in myth. Far from the coast, the locations of the groves
were a closely guarded secret. Manzala still preserves this mystery. -Salaam alaikum.
-Wa alaikum assalam. [Arabic spoken audio] I've come to learn how you go
about harvesting the frankincense. Show me the old method, the technique
that your ancestors passed on to you. We've always done it like this. These are the cuts. After making the cuts, you wait 20 days. After 20 days, the first layer appears
and we harvest it. Then, you stop at the fourth cut. Is it the same for all the trees? No, some don't produce anything
even after the fourth cut, so then you stop. The frankincense you harvest here,
what's it like? When the resin flows,
it forms little white pellets. The best incense
is what you harvest first. It has the lightest color. The desert Bedouins don't speak Arabic. Even today, they continue to speak
their own particular dialect. Even though times are changing in Oman,
it is still a land of oral tradition. In his quest for knowledge, Mohsin listens attentively
to the stories of the old-timers. There are a lot of trees here. We've always been part of the Manzala. We share the trees of the whole wadi. Manzala means a region of trees. Each person has his territory. Everyone knows
and respects the boundaries. That's always been the tradition. -Do you mean from the beginning of time?
-Yes. We have to respect the tradition
for our life depends on frankincense, literally. This holds true not only for my family,
but for all the families of Manzala All of them. As long as there are trees here,
there will be "man" as well. In these hushed, timeless valleys, only the words of the Bedouins
ruffle the silence. [Arabic spoken audio] To the south, Dhofar borders on the sea, the Sea of Oman and the Indian Ocean. Scheherazade drew her inspiration
from this land, and one can easily imagine
Sinbad the Sailor striking out across these waters
to embark on fantastic adventures. Mohsin owns a few trees himself, an inheritance. He and his nephew
study every aspect of them. He is also transmitting
his storehouse of knowledge and hopes to heighten
people's awareness of these trees. [Arabic spoken audio] Right now, the trees are suffering
from several diseases and parasites, as you can see here with these insects. We have to find out why
and get to the root of the problem. Why is this tree healthy here
and not here? [Arabic spoken audio] There are other insects
invading this tree. Again, we have to find out why. When they overtap the tree
with too many cuts, it's weakened
and gets attacked by insects. [Arabic spoken audio] To understand and to share, that's the mission
that Mohsin has taken on. Knowledge of the frankincense tree
will be his contribution to this story, which is thousands of years old. It's the pride of Mohsin,
son of Bedouins, a man of the desert. There are no limits to knowledge, but before leaving this world,
I hope to contribute something, and make a significant advance
in the scientific knowledge of this tree. Mohsin is perpetuating
the Bedouins' age-old story. He carries us off
to the mysteries of the Orient, of frankincense,
and of the Thousand and One Nights. Larger than all of France, the Rub' al Khali covers one-fourth
of the Arabian Peninsula. This boundless wilderness
has forged the identity of Arabia and those who live here. It's a last frontier, defended by the wind
and the vast emptiness. For the Bedouins,
this is the desert of desert, a hostile, arid land,
and it never rains here. The temperatures can soar
to 60 degrees Celsius in the day and plunge to -10 at night. The dunes can shift in a few hours,
pushed by the winds alone. The French poet Arthur Rimbaud was 26 years old
at the end of the 19th century. He answered the call of the desert. During the final years of his life, the poet traveled
through Arabia and Abyssinia. He roamed these vast expanses on foot,
on horseback and camel. His friend Verlaine dubbed him
The Man with Foot Soles of Wind. "There's one thing
that remains impossible for me," insisted Rimbaud. "That is, to lead a sedentary life." In the desert, you feel hunger,
thirst, the lash of the sun, and drought. You lose yourself
without knowing whether you'll survive. Realm of a few madmen,
seekers of the absolute, and somewhere amidst these dunes,
Lawrence of Arabia. One can easily imagine the British soldier crossing Arabia
in 1916 with his fellow nomads. Face-to-face with the desert,
he learns to make do with nothing. He approaches as he says,
"The pleasure and suffering." The man surrounds himself solely
with desert Bedouins, the only men worthy of his trust,
he thinks. In the peninsula, he earns the honorific name
of Al Lawrence. Thirst, hunger, and a hostile environment, this is Saïd's daily lot. Within him dwells
the response to the desert. He is a Bedouin as well,
but belongs to the mountains. This wadi is called Salma. My village is named after that river. I've lived here all my life. This is where I was born. We're in the mountains here. I wouldn't leave it
for anything in the world. I wouldn't want to live down there
on the plains or anywhere else. I've always lived here. This is my land. I'm attached to these mountains. I don't like to go down into the valley. When I travel,
it's never more than one or two days. I always come back very quickly to Salma
because I miss it. I get homesick very quickly. Saïd has a three-day walk
to reach the nearest town, several hours to his village. He lives right in the heart
of the Hajar Mountains. This range is in the northeast
of the Sultanate. Saïd lives in this remote valley
where he tends his palm grove. When Saïd was a child,
there was no school here, no electricity and no roads. Saïd doesn't know how to read,
write or drive. I get around the valley only on foot, never by car. I know all the wadis, all the rivers, and all the channels because I've walked them. Wherever I go, I use these trails. The same trails my ancestors used. I never learned how to drive a car. It's a bit late for that now. I'm almost 60. According to a legend, this narrow gorge
leads to the ancient city of Sana'a, meaning the hidden village. It's called that because it hides
behind the mountain when you begin to get close to it. For many years,
this haven of peace and prosperity was protected and hidden from view. Then one day, a tyrant discovered it. He seized its riches
and then destroyed everything. Ever since this sad tale,
Sana'a has been marked on the maps. Not far away, in the village of Salma, Saïd's life consists
of a small herd of goats and his fruit trees, date palms in particular. The date,
king of fruit in the Sultanate of Oman. In this plot, there are six palm trees. Over there, another five. They belong to my family, to my brothers, my sisters and my cousins. I'm the one who takes care of them,
so I get a larger share of the dates. We have 70 date palms and all. These branches are palm flowers. It's where the pollen is. I put them in my tunic here, and I wet them so the palm tree
can produce a lot of dates. This is how we pollinate the palm trees. I have to wet them. Otherwise, it wouldn't work. Now, I have to bring them up the tree. Dates are the sugar of Oman. The inhabitants eat them
at any and all hours of the day. Saïd has been climbing
to the top of his date palms for 50 years. I learned everything from my father, and the old-timers before. It's the tradition here. I've been working in the palm groves
since I was 14. I also take care of the irrigation here, and in the other spots
farther up and in the valley. I've been doing the same thing
since I was 14. For years
I've been doing nothing but this. This is my life. Everything needs water. Every living thing needs water,
as it says in the Quran. Everything was created from water. Where do man, the animals, the trees,
and palm trees come from? From water. It's the very essence of man,
of plants and all things. I'm not afraid, even 40 meters up. I'm not afraid, 40 meters up. The Hajar mountains
with their 3,000-meter peaks, are a mineral barrier
where time seems to stand still. All this space and seeming hostility have shaped the life, spirit,
and identity of the Mountain Bedouins. Once nomads, they owe their survival
to this wild nature that they succeeded in taming. In controlling this craggy terrain, they've made life emerge
where there was none before. Our ancestors devised the entire system that allows us
to channel the water into the canals, and then to the terraces. From the top of the mountains,
down into the valley. Every morning, Saïd makes his ritual tour
of inspection of his palm grove, crossing it from one side to the other. The only path possible in these mountains
is this steep trail. The climate here is milder
than in the plains. The Bedouins have settled in the highlands
to cultivate their trees, and Saïd is continuing
this ancestral way of life. We eat and drink thanks
to the irrigation system. Just like our ancestors before us. We came into the world
and we carried on their tradition. Now, we continue to work the land, and live from farming
and cultivating palm and orange trees. They follow this way of life
in the whole valley and beyond. The Bedouins are keeping the past alive, and this once-abandoned village as well. They keep up the houses
on the mountainside so that their memory will never disappear. The terraced plots
make a charming adornment to the Hajar Mountains. Saïd lives a solitary life here. He tends his trees that feed his children. Perched on the mountainside,
this earth yields fruit and vegetables. These are the lemons. Our grenadines are here, the peaches over there,
and on the other side, we have vineyards. Saïd knows that one day he too will have to pass his trees
on to his children. All that is in his chant. Born in the palm grove, his lament rises and drifts away
in the echoes of the mountains. Forty years is the prime of life. Fifty is another age,
the beginning of another life. Then 60, the time to reap
all that we've sown throughout our lives. The fruit of our experience has ripened,
and it's the time of the harvest. Saïd, a mountain Bedouin,
grows trees from rocks. His hands bring forth lemons,
grapes and dates. This is how life flows
in the Hajar Mountains. Several hundred miles
from the shores of the Gulf of Oman and the capital, Muscat, lies the Djebel Al Akhdar,
the Green Mountain in English. The village of Balad Sayt
numbers about 50 families. It is situated near a wadi, a canyon. A trail has been recently opened
leading to it, but for a long time,
the village was inaccessible. For centuries, the villagers here could only count
on their ingenuity and sense of sharing, so they managed to master water. In Balad Sayt, the whole life of the village
depends on the transmission from one generation to the next. Parents teach their children right
from a very early age this simple truth: life comes from water. I would like to do like my father
and my grandfather before him. It's always been the tradition here: growing crops, irrigation,
and taking care of the falajs. After my father, it would be my turn to pass my knowledge
to my brothers and sisters, and later on to my own children. The spring water is channeled
from the peaks down to the villages by these aqueducts
that carry it to its intended destination. The channels and plots of land
are all laid out, so each family gets its fair share. This irrigation system
is called the falajs. We're in the heart of the Green Mountain. Here, the air is alive
with the murmur of water. Ahmed and his son
were born here in Balad Sayt. Ahmed is the Arif, the water master. His role is to take care
of the village's major falajs. Everyone respects
his knowledge and authority. Over its 5,000 years of existence, the system of canals
has continued to grow. Naturally, they had to appoint men
to tend the many branches. The water masters have an overall view
of the irrigation system, laid out like a spiderweb. Once a week,
I do the maintenance on the oasis. I check all the channels
and make sure the water flows freely. [Arabic spoken audio] Every year, one member of the community
is chosen for the job. [Arabic spoken audio] This year, I'm the one in charge. It's my job. I'm in charge of the maintenance
as well as the distribution of the water. If something needs to be repaired,
I get my children to give me a hand. We buy what we need for the repairs,
and we go to work. [Arabic spoken audio] We teach our children
the knowledge of our forebears. If we don't teach them at this age, they'll never know
how to work the land or tend the falajs, what needs to be done day by day
to keep them up. That's why we ensure they come along
when they're quite young. They come everywhere with us. We're proud of them
as we are of our fathers. This way, everyone knows
all about our culture. That's why our children
come along with us. It is to learn. The water masters are the guardians
of an important facet of Oman's history. The falajs have been classed
a World Heritage Site. Even today, life in the Djebel Al Akhdar
depends on them. By tending the falajs, the water masters become
intimately acquainted with the whole network, and they ensure
that the system runs efficiently. Once, long ago,
people climbed this mountain. Five thousand years ago,
they deviated the course of the water. Once a month,
Ahmed and his son go up to the source. Ahmed, here's the falaj we have to clean out. We'll start at the source and then go on to the channels,
down to the village. These mountains enjoy a different climate
from the rest of the country. It's not as hot in the summer,
and colder and more humid in the winter. In November and December, the mountain is buffeted
by violent storms, a true godsend for these valleys. The falaj must never get clogged up, and even less to rot. The water must always flow. There should never be any bugs
or slime mold in it. It's important to take care of the water. Nothing will go wrong
as long as the falaj is well-kept. Thanks be to God, our fathers taught us
how to repair the falajs with clay. Of course, we could use cement,
but we prefer to do like our ancestors. We want to preserve
the health of our people as well as the beauty of the falajs. [Arabic spoken audio] The whole canal system
was very difficult to dig. Our ancestors worked very hard. It wasn't a simple task. That's why it's important for us
to preserve this heritage. We have to take care of the channels, the quality of the water
and its good taste. That's why we prefer to keep it
as it was in the beginning. Those who've gone before us
knew what they were doing. Ahmed and his son work
so that Balad Sayt conserves its history. Their life continues
practically unchanged in the age-old way. The mountain jealously guards
the secrets of the falajs. It's much better living here in these isolated regions
than in the city. Down there, you don't feel the weather
and the change of seasons. You spend all your time running around. It's not like that here. We can enjoy the passing of time, and we can take the time to say hello. We live in the old way. We're not contaminated by the city
where you need a car and a big house. Here, our modest dwellings
are enough for us. In the palm grove, the main canal
splits off into a complex network. Each plot of land,
each terrace gets its ration of water. The water masters see
that the distribution runs smoothly. They know all the ramifications
of the system and channel the water where it's needed. We irrigate every nine days
following a 24-hour cycle. It has always been like this. It's our system here. Everyone knows the system. Nothing is written down. Everyone knows when it's their turn. From noon to 4:00 p.m.,
it's one farmer's turn. Then, someone else until 8:00 p.m. Everyone gets their turn. In the Sultanate of Oman, the Bedouins
are the keepers of age-old secrets. People of an oral tradition, they tell their story
and thus perpetuate it. This memory is engraved in these waterways
that flow on and on.
