Teaching in Muscat: Finding My Footing as an International School Teacher

When I stepped off the late-night flight into Muscat with two suitcases, a contract, and the kind of nerves that make you forget your own phone number, the air surprised me first. It was winter, so instead of the desert sauna I’d braced for, the night felt soft—cool enough for a light sweater, with the faintest hint of the sea. Six months later, I still keep a hoodie in my car for early mornings and desert nights, and I still get a pinch of wonder when the call to prayer threads through the day.

Getting Here: The Teaching Visa Maze Made Human

My school handled most of the heavy lifting, but I won’t pretend the paperwork was seamless. Before I left the States, I had my degrees attested and my background check notarized and stamped—it felt like a scavenger hunt through two continents. After arrival, I did a medical exam at a government clinic (blood test, chest X-ray), and then fingerprints for the residence card. I learned two important things: government offices open early, and a little Arabic goes a long way. “Sabah al-khair” and a smile softened a long morning in a bright, echoing hall.

If you’re considering this path, my takeaways:

• Scan everything—diplomas, license, marriage certificate if applicable—and email copies to yourself.
• Expect the process to take a few weeks after arrival. My passport was with HR for parts of it, which felt odd but was normal.
• Your employer is your sponsor. Changing jobs mid-contract can be complicated, so read your contract (twice).

I celebrated my residence card with a karak tea in a paper cup, sweet and strong, while the winter sun set pink over Qurum beach. It felt like a small, legal “Welcome.”

Building a Life: Housing, Costs, and the First Grocery Run

The school gave me a housing allowance, and a new colleague took me apartment hunting along the neighborhoods that kept coming up on WhatsApp: Al Ghubra, Qurum, Madinat Sultan Qaboos, and the polished, marina-side world of Al Mouj. I chose a one-bedroom in Al Ghubra near the coast. The building is nothing fancy, but my balcony faces a date palm and the call to prayer sounds nearby and soothing rather than loud.

Costs vary wildly by area and taste. For me:

• Rent: My one-bedroom is mid-range for Muscat and takes a chunk of my salary, but it’s manageable with the allowance.
• Utilities: Winter is kind. My electricity bill is calm now and spikes in summer with AC. Water is inexpensive.
• Internet and mobile: Reasonable, and the data is fast enough for streaming lesson videos. WhatsApp will quickly become your second workplace.
• Groceries: Imported items add up; local produce and fish are great buys. Lulu and Carrefour are my regulars. I learned to ask for “pomfret” and “kingfish” at the market and watch the fishmongers skillfully clean it in minutes.

On moving day, a neighbor knocked with coffee—fragrant, spiced Omani kahwa in tiny cups—and a plate of dates. I didn’t know if I should drink with my right hand (yes) or decline initially (also yes), but she laughed kindly when I fumbled and said, “You are welcome here.” That phrase holds a lot of my gratitude for Muscat.

The Work: Kids, Curricula, and the 6:30 Alarm

My school week runs Sunday through Thursday, and my alarm is cruel before dawn. Morning light in winter is cool and gentle, and classes start early to make the most of daylight. We’re a mix of students: local families, kids from across the Gulf, and from every continent. The energy is beautiful. In my classroom, “Where are you from?” is plural and evolving.

Teaching here changed my assumptions. English is a second or third language for many students, and I quickly learned to build in more visual scaffolding and to anchor lessons with local examples. We used a meteorite crater in Oman to talk about geology; we measured star distances after a camping trip under the sharp, winter Milky Way in the desert.

After-school clubs fit the season. Winter is outdoor season, so I help lead a hiking club. We start easy—Wadi Shab, where the water is clear and cold; Wadi Bani Khalid, which feels like a painter spilled emeralds—and move onto steeper paths when students are ready. Safety matters; winter storms can turn wadis into torrents. I carry a slightly embarrassing number of snack bars and a first-aid kit like a teacher’s talisman.

Work has its challenges. Inspection weeks bring a special, caffeine-heavy intensity. I’m not fluent in Arabic, and I still stumble. Once I confused “shukran” (thank you) with “sukar” (sugar) and told the school receptionist “Sugar very much!” She saved me with a grin and an extra date.

Culture, Respect, and Finding “My People”

Oman is gentle and dignified. Modesty isn’t a costume you put on for school hours; it’s the culture’s respectful baseline. I cover shoulders and knees at work and when I’m out in most neighborhoods, and I keep a scarf in my bag. The norms aren’t oppressive—they’re context. I don’t blast music in the car near mosques; I keep public displays of affection for private spaces; I take my shoes off when someone does at their door.

Arabic is both a bridge and a humility lesson. My student Abdulrahman taught me to say “yalla” with the right playful impatience, and Miriam’s mother showed me how “Inshallah” can hold both hope and realism. I don’t need to be fluent to be respectful, but effort changes the room.

Finding community took a little bravery. My first friends were colleagues; then came a patchwork of groups:

• WhatsApp hiking groups and weekend convoys into the dunes. Deflate tires, pack extra water, tell someone your route.
• A book club that meets at cafés along the Qurum stretch—coffee, cardamom, and the slow page turn of a winter Sunday morning.
• An expat teacher group that swaps classroom hacks, secondhand furniture, and the best spots for shawarma after late parent nights.
• Intercultural meetups by the marina in Al Mouj. The crowd is mixed: engineers, nurses, entrepreneurs, teachers. It’s where I learned that saying yes to an invitation unlocks three more.

February in Muscat comes with outdoor concerts, evening food stalls, and seaside walks that don’t require a hat and liters of water. The national day banners have long come down, and there’s a quiet sense of anticipation—Ramadan is close this year, and people are preparing. The city will shift, gently; restaurants adjust hours, and we’ll avoid eating or drinking in public during fasting hours out of respect. I’m making a calendar for myself and my students with adjusted schedules and more mindful breaks.

The Gulf Lifestyle: Malls, Mountain Roads, and a Changing Pace

There’s a rhythm to life here that I didn’t expect to love. Weekends often mean a Friday morning at Mutrah Corniche—walking past the white and blue minarets and the fishing boats stacked with nets—then a late breakfast of khubz regag with cheese and honey. Malls are social hubs; I didn’t come to Oman for mall life, but I get it now. They’re cool in every sense and an easy place to meet friends from across the city.

I bought a practical car with high clearance after borrowing rides for a month. Relying on buses in Muscat is possible but slow, and taxis add up. Learning roundabout etiquette felt like leveling up in a video game: look, signal, be decisive, and wave thanks. Fuel is less of a financial shock than it was in the States, and winter driving is bliss compared to summer’s glare.

Evenings are slower. I’ve learned to plan groceries and errands before sunset when possible, mostly to give myself time to breathe. The call to prayer has become a metronome for my day. So has grading: I mark essays on my balcony, hoodie on, watching the neighborhood cats move like liquid shadows along the wall.

Healthcare and the “Just in Case” Drawer

I have employer-provided health insurance, and most private clinics and hospitals accept it with direct billing. I’ve visited a clinic for a sinus infection—winter means open windows and cool nights and, sometimes, a scratchy throat—and saw a doctor within an hour. Pharmacies are everywhere and surprisingly helpful; the pharmacists often speak multiple languages and will gently talk you out of overbuying cough syrups you don’t need.

If you’re coming, I’d bring a few months of your regular prescriptions and a summary from your doctor, plus spare contacts if you wear them. Dental care is good but not cheap; I scheduled a cleaning during a school break when I could comparison-shop and not be in a hurry.

Into the Sands: Desert Nights and New Courage

My first proper desert trip was to the Wahiba Sands in December. We traveled in a three-car convoy, turned off the highway onto a track that looked like it led into a blank page, and let down our tires. The sand took us in. At night, the temperature dropped fast. I wore every layer I had and lay back to a sky so full of stars it felt crowded. Someone brewed cardamom tea on a camp stove. Someone else told a story that made us cry, then laugh at ourselves for crying.

On the drive out, we passed a Bedouin camp, goats clustered along a fence, and a woman waved us on our way. Oman has a way of making strangers feel less strange.

What I Wish I Knew Before I Came

• Patience is not passivity. Government processes move at their pace, but people are kind. Bring snacks, water, and the assumption of good intent.
• Winter is your friend. Hike, camp, explore wadi pools now. Summer is coming, and you’ll be grateful for every memory stored up.
• Save, but live a little. It’s possible to put money aside on a teacher’s salary here, especially with housing support. But don’t skip the dhow ride at sunset or the impromptu road trip to Jebel Akhdar when you get invited.
• Modesty is a mindset, not just a hemline. Ask questions, listen more than you talk, and you’ll be welcomed into rooms you didn’t know existed.
• Community doesn’t arrive at your door; you build it. Say yes to the coffee, the hike, the workshop, the charity run.

Closing Thoughts

I came to Muscat because I wanted to teach in a new context, grow professionally, and see a different sky. I’m staying because my students surprise me daily, because the desert demands both humility and joy, and because it feels good to be part of a city that is both gracious and modern, measured and curious. There are days I miss snow and my niece’s school play and the ease of knowing exactly where to buy the right brand of peanut butter. There are days I stand at the edge of the sea at sunset and feel very small in the best way.

If you’re considering Oman as an international school teacher, come with respect, stamina, and a willingness to learn. Pack a scarf and a sense of humor. Bring your craft as an educator and your capacity for wonder. Winter will meet you gently at the door.

Best wishes from Muscat,