So… I must mention before I dive into this blog… the other day, we pulled into a roadside station for a gas fill and a toilet stop. While we were there, a random Saudi local approached me and asked me where I was from.
“Canada.”
He got quite excited hearing this and was curious as to which part I was from, since he’d been there before. I said I grew up just outside Vancouver, but currently lived in Banff. He replied, “Oh, those are two of the very best places in Canada!”
Agreed.
Of course… Sue was nearby, heard the entire exchange… and was crotchety not to be the centre of attention. She couldn’t resist jumping right in to a conversation that had nothing to do with her.
“The best part of Canada is actually Prince Rupert,” she said defiantly, doing her best to completely steal the conversation away from me. “That’s where MY dad is from.”
Spoiler alert: It’s not.
But… voilà… she somehow managed to shift the focus from me to herself… and then proceeded to talk endlessly about where her dad grew up and how she’s ‘half Canadian too.’
I don’t know how she doesn’t hear herself. I bet if I asked her what city in Canada has the highest amount of rainfall per year, she wouldn’t know.
Spoiler alert: It’s Prince Rupert.
We crossed into Jordan the following day.
So… now as we prepared to exit the majestic country of Saudi Arabia, I figured I should reflect on the things I learned while being here. After all… it had been three weeks.
Don’t ever trust anything to be open. Although they may say ‘open’ online and in guide books, ‘closed’ appears to be the norm. That goes for museums, stores, forts, restaurants, cafes, castles, galleries, bathrooms…
Always carry a wad of toilet paper with you. Always. A lot of the public toilets are those ghastly, unhygienic squatters… but usually there is at least one regular toilet mulling around. Sometimes not though.
Not all credit or debit cards work everywhere you go. Sometimes bank machines and cc machines will only work for their own distributed cards.
Always try to carry smaller bills on you. Many businesses will struggle to provide change if you present them with a large denomination.
There are tissues everywhere. Like Kleenex. You get tissues on your tables at restaurants, tissues in your hotels and tissues in the bathroom.
There are dates everywhere… and they’re delicious. They are very much a staple of Saudi hospitality. Most hotels will have a large bowl of them as soon as you walk in the door, which is a big bonus.
They have cheese in a tin here! And it’s actually quite scrumptious.
Saudis love turning random patches of desert or roadside into picnic spots. It’s fascinating to see families setting up rugs and cushions by the side of the highway to enjoy tea and some snacks.
Everyone is obsessed with perfume. I’m not making this up. It’s everywhere… and every shop will try to sell you their “best” blend. If you don’t like the smell, then obviously Saudi Arabia might be a bit nauseating.
It’s eerily empty everywhere during the daylight hours… but when the sun goes down… everyone comes out. Seriously… everyone!
I would never venture as far as to say that Saudis are good drivers, but you have to give them one thing… they certainly can drive their cars until they’re dead. I’m talking falling apart, beaten up, held together with tape, pieces hanging off…I’ve never seen anything like it.
Saudi has a real coffee culture… right up there with dates. Shaking your coffee cup when you’re finished signals that you don’t want any more.
The generosity of the Saudi people is truly unmatched. Their kindness, hospitality and unwavering willingness to lend a hand set a standard that is unparalleled.
So long, Saudi Arabia…
We were all bracing ourselves for a long and tedious border crossing, but it turned out to be surprisingly quick and painless. As soon as we crossed, the first thing we saw was duty-free… and we all know what duty-free sells…
Alcohol!
It had been a long three weeks. After we’d all made our way through customs and had our luggage x-rayed… we all quickly made our way into duty-free.
Actually… I got a little bit of special treatment… though some may argue I wasn’t getting any special treatment at all. The customs officer asked me what my name was.
“Joanna McBride,” I replied.
“Joanna?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
He then told me that my name was Arabic… and asked me if I knew that.
“I didn’t… but I do now.” I smiled.
Then another customs officer came around the corner, looked at me and said, “Joanna… Mary?”
Ummmm… yes.
All I could say was, “You’ve heard of me?”
I was famous… kinda. Then they set up the immigration camera and snapped a photo of me. Just me. No one else. It was all a little surreal. But… I was gracious and all smiles.
There was this frantic energy in the air as we all crammed into the duty-free store, not really thinking about whether the prices were a good deal or not. Honestly… the truth is we probably could’ve gotten everything much, much cheaper elsewhere, but desperation won out. Everyone just loaded up right on the spot… like it was the only chance we’d ever get.
Our hostel was about twenty minutes past the border, just outside the coastal town of Aqaba. It was a charming little place… really brightly coloured, peaceful… and with a frozen, unused pool. A few people jumped in… but they jumped out just as quickly.
I splurged for an upgrade again… which was easy to justify considering hostel upgrades are pretty affordable.
One of the first things we all did was stockpile our laundry and hand it off to some guy, who threw it all in his car and disappeared down the road. He promised to come back with it… and all we could do was hope he was telling the truth. I didn’t even think about the cost, as I was so desperate to get my clothes clean. Everything I owned was filthy… either from extensive wear, sleeping in them or from digging out the truck from layers of muck and mud. It had been a long time since I’d had a proper laundry service done. My plastic bag of dirty clothes reeked so badly that every time I opened it, I was hit with the most horrifying stench.
Honestly, I’d take Warren’s bad body odour over that foul smell any day.
That evening, we all started drinking. Martin, surprisingly, got into it the most and became an actual decent and friendly human being for a change. It’s amusing how alcohol can instantly change someone’s entire demeanour. With some encouragement (and a few beers), he finally shared the story about how the truck got unstuck… a story we should’ve rightfully heard the day he arrived in Jeddah.
But… better late than never, I guess.
He admitted that Rosanna had been pushing him to share the story with us… which leads me to believe he never actually intended to share it with us in the first place. It’s left me seriously conflicted about how much to tip him for this tour.
Right now, I’m leaning toward a system… $1 for every day he was driving… and then I’ll subtract $1 for every day he ignored us or avoided interacting with anyone. By the time we reach January 19th… which will be the end of this tour… I’ll have been on this bus for 59 days. At this rate, Martin’s tip will amount to about $13.
I wish I were joking.
Rosanna has mentioned a few times that he’s really tired… and that the tour has been much too long for him. While I understand that, he signed up for this… and his bad attitude has had a noticeable impact on our experience. His grumpiness, irritability and constant need for alone time have cast a shadow over what could have been a much better trip for everyone.
Quite frankly… he doesn’t deserve a tip at all.
During Martin’s story telling time, he happened to mention that all these people in trucks kept showing up… out of nowhere.
Out of nowhere?
“Hmmmm…” I said, “how did THAT happen?”
It was time for him to finally acknowledge my efforts… and… more importantly, my highly effective TikTok contribution. After all, it had been over a week.
Eight days, to be exact.
Eight days of completely ignoring not only me, but everyone else who had pitched in as well… including the people in trucks who just kept showing up… out of nowhere.
Disgraceful.
Rosanna and Mickey spent the entire evening curled up together… completely absorbed in each other. They stayed nestled close, talking nonstop, as if no one else existed. It’s clear that Rosanna is just as enchanted by Mickey as she is by her.
That’s our guide, everyone…
And her power-tripping side-kick.
Warren once told me that when Mickey rejoined the tour, he genuinely thought she and Rosanna were a couple. They were inseparable and frequently vanished without explanation.
Honestly? It’s weird.
Normally, Martin demands ALL of Rosanna’s attention… and she usually trails after him like a lost puppy. Who knows what is going on. The dynamics on this truck are strange, to say the least.
Toxic.
Exhausting.
Un-do-again-able.
Amid all this, Martin confessed to me that he wasn’t exactly thrilled about having a “TikToker” on board the truck. In fact… he hated the idea.
I couldn’t understand it.
“Seriously?” I said to him. “You’re more concerned about me making short travel videos for TikTok than the fact that I’m a writer?”
I don’t think the sheer absurdity of his perspective registered… probably thanks to the alcohol.
For the record, I’ve never considered myself a “TikToker” in the “famous influencer” sense… because there is nothing famous nor influential about any of my videos… at all. They are only for fun. So far… my earnings are… hold on… let me count… $0.
But let’s not forget… this so-called “TikToker” helped Martin and his beloved truck out of a lot of hot water.
Then Mickey had the nerve to pipe up with an absurd suggestion, “You should film Martin right now, saying thank you to everyone, and post it on TikTok.”
I should what?
Excuse me?
You’ve GOT to be joking.
This coming from someone who was too cool for school to even watch it when I sent it to her.
Beat it, creep.
How about you stop shadowing Rosanna for ten minutes and do it yourself?
I’ve certainly done enough…
Ok. Rant over.
Breath…
Meanwhile… Sue was in fine form, rolling her eyes and doing her exaggerated shrugs. It was like I was suddenly getting a bit of credit… and she got nasty about it because the limelight wasn’t on her. At one point, she made some smug, odious comment about me… following it up with a dramatic eye roll in Persnickety’s direction.
Both Martin and I caught it… and we exchanged a little knowing look.
That sealed it… I need to cut her loose. I can’t deal with her negative and cruel energy anymore.
It’s too much.
How am I supposed to spend three full days in Amman with her?
Answer: I’m not.
I actually don’t know why she even wants to share a room with me. I know she grumbles about me… all the time. She grumbles about everyone.
We all know.
Something else strange happened that night as well. Mickey confessed something huge to me.
“I have no money,” she said.
Wait… what?
No money. Like, nothing. A bit of cash… sure… but no savings, no RRSPs, no credit cards, no line of credit. Nothing to fall back on. Just… nothing.
I was stunned.
This is the same person who constantly upgrades her hotel rooms and once flew to Dubai for a single day. We’re all still scratching our heads over that one. A lot…
More now, of course.
I stood there… awkward and unsure about what to do… before blurting out an offer to lend her money. I didn’t know what else to do. Why I did that, I have no idea… I’m hardly in the position to be lending anyone money. Of course, she declined… thank goodness… saying she’d have money in ten days.
Ten days?
What’s happening in ten days?
Is she on the dole?
Remind me to look up how cash gets wired from the UK to the Middle East. Is Dubai the only banking option? And if so… will she have to go back there in ten days to sort this out again?
The whole thing keeps getting stranger and stranger.
And really… why would someone with ZERO money keep upgrading their hotel rooms AND keep extending their vacation on such an expensive… and extensive… excursion?
There’s something oddly fascinating and wildly reckless-feeling about being older… and still managing to live slightly irresponsibly… thanks to accumulated credit.
It’s sad that Mickey is making all these financial sacrifices to… essentially… be near Rosanna. She’s not experiencing travel like she should be at her age. Picking up fruit picking jobs… doing volunteer work… sleeping on rooftops… hitchhiking… and doing all of it broke.
Oh well.
To each, their own.
That evening, Martin also got on the subject of being too tired after being on the road so long. I told him that it wasn’t fair on any of us… and he agreed. Though he’s done nothing to alter his demeanour since.
Even though the drinks were flowing, I decided to retreat to my room when I realized it was just Martin, Sue and Marilyn left.
Better to be safe than sorry.
Especially when Persnickety started telling Martin that she knew he was “only trying to find them the best camping spot” when he got the truck stuck.
What a load of absolute crap.
She had been moaning endlessly that the help should’ve shown up the day before and we were all so “put out because of it.”
She rarely voices direct complaints but instead drops these nasty, sly comments designed to make others around her feel guilty or uncomfortable. It’s like she does it intentionally… leaving people unsure of whether or not they need to defend themselves. In most interactions, what she does is subtly shift focus to her own grievances or hardships.
Too much wine mixed with the Persnickety / Sue duo was nothing but a recipe for disaster. Honestly, I really do believe that these past three weeks sober were a blessing in disguise. I don’t think I could have handled free-flowing wine around those two clowns.
I got up the next morning for breakfast… and then immediately went back to bed. I hadn’t had tooooo much to drink, but after weeks of being sober… even the little bit hit me hard. My head was pounding, and I just didn’t have the energy to move. At all.
Our hostel was right on the coast of the Red Sea… and most of the group went snorkeling or scuba diving.
Not me.
I’ve always been terrified of the Red Sea. Did you know there are 44 species of sharks in the Red Sea? When I was a kid, my father used to tell me stories from his time in the Royal Marines, flying over the sea in helicopters and looking down at the numerous sharks, circling below. He even once told me about a woman who was bathing her baby in shallow water. She saw a shark coming… immediately threw the baby onto the shore… and was grabbed by the shark, never to be seen again.
So ya… you weren’t going to catch me in the Red Sea. Ever. Looking back, I should have at least walked down to the shore and taken a picture, but I didn’t.
Blame the wine.
Mickey went scuba diving. Of course she did. Rosanna was going.
Broke… and scuba…
A few hours later, I managed to pull myself together… and joined Vic and Tania for a trip into Aqaba. The plan was to wander around, see some sights and then grab dinner at a local restaurant. It seemed like a great idea… until I actually got INTO the taxi. I hadn’t eaten much breakfast… and all I’d been doing since waking up, was chugging water. It was my feeble attempt to feel better. It didn’t work.
It backfired.
At one point… and this is an embarrassment to me… I had to ask the driver to pull over so I could throw up the water on the side of the road.
All the water came gushing out of me.
If there was any way I could’ve avoided it, I would have.
Vic told the driver that I had overdone it with drinks the night before… but I felt like my problem was more than just alcohol. Maybe I was coming down with something? Let’s blame the booze anyway.
The taxi driver was quite the character. He refused to put on his seatbelt until the ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding almost made me postal… and I was forced to say something. He flipped off the local police, yelled at some pedestrians and a lot of other drivers. At one point, he turned to Vic and said, “Do you smoke?”
When Vic said no, the driver threw his arms up dramatically, yelling, “Why???”
Even though I wasn’t at 100%, our walk around Aqaba was interesting. We wandered through the castle, strolled the Aqaba Corniche… where we got mercilessly and relentlessly harassed by a slew of men trying to sell us their glass-bottom boat tours. The beach was alive with activity. People were picnicking everywhere. The most bizarre moment was spotting a little girl smoking. Maybe she was six… maybe she was seven. But she couldn’t have been older than eight… and she was smoking a cigarette… like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Aqaba was a bit of a run down town. A lot of it looked like it had been bombed. There were so many liquor stores that it actually became silly. On one street, there was one right after another… ! Our taxi driver kept referring to Aqaba as Honolulu… but I’d hardly use that reference in comparison.
We explored the ruins of the old town and popped into a few over-prices souvenir shops before finally sitting down for dinner. The taxi driver had recommended a place… so we took him up on that. We didn’t have much choice as directly in front of the restaurant was the location he’d pinpointed for our pickup to take us back to the hotel.
The waiter was an oddball… and I don’t think he fully understood anything I asked for. I wanted a falafel and hummus wrap with vegetables in it.
Simple. Small.
What arrived was neither simple… nor small.
I got a basket of 20 pitas and a plate of 15 falafel balls. I got a bowl of lemon yoghurt and a bowl of hummus. I got a bowl of tomato and lettuce salad and a bowl of pickles. I got a bowl of shredded carrots, a bowl of baba ghanoush and a bowl of hot peppers.
Food just kept arriving.
It was unfathomable.
After I’d finished a wrap… and was full… it looked like I hadn’t even made a dent. There went my intermittent fasting… though I have to admit, it’s had the opposite effect on me this time due to such inactivity. I’ve gained so much weight and I look more bloated than I’ve ever been… and I feel more disgusting and lethargic than I’ve ever felt.
So… with 9 bowls & plates of food in front of me… I mixed everything together and just started making stuffed pitas for lunch.
The other thing was when he asked me if I wanted a drink.
I said, “Fanta, thank you.”
He paused… looked at me and started spouting off about how good the bitter lemon was. Oh… ok… “I’ll have a Fanta, please.”
Again… he looked at me and paused. “Bitter lemon is good for the stomach.”
Ok…
He continued, looking directly at me, “Fanta has sugar, you know.”
Ummmmm…
What was going on here?
Was he implying that I looked like I didn’t need any more sugar… which was brutally true… but none of his business. OR… had our little friend, the smoking taxi driver, been in telling tales of me being sick on the side of the road???
I’m sure both applied…
By that point, I was completely drained… so I didn’t care. I was just happy I’d made it through the day.
Oh… my laundry was returned.
All my white stuff is now a lovely shade of butter yellow.
Why?
Don’t ask…
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