The weekly goat auction in Nizwa, the former capital of Oman, is a mixture of Crufts gone wild and a Wall Street trading floor, and everyone is far too busy to give me, a western woman, even a glance.

Some men hold staffs, dead ringers for Abraham, their brown faces deeply furrowed as they watch the display of struggling goats and cows. It's like stumbling into the Old Testament.

Forget scenic helicopter rides or private jets. This is the way to fly - like a bird, like an angel, swooping through the sky above the Zambezi with nothing between the ground and my dangling feet but air. Icarus didn't have the advantage of technology, but his father had the right idea. Today, I have wings.