The evening in Saudi Arabia, I was mentioning to everyone that it didn’t seem as cold as the last time we’d camped in Saudi Arabia.
I spoke too soon.
We froze.
By the wee hours of the morning, I couldn’t feel my hands or my toes. They were completely numb, despite my buying TWO new blankets during our stop in Bahrain. They hardly made a difference. Sleep was impossible, and I genuinely felt as though I was freezing to death.
I took hours to thaw…
For breakfast, our cook crew team decided to get creative with the burger meal leftovers. I took the remaining mashed potatoes, the leftover mince, a bit of cream cheese, some grilled onions and the last of the rubber cheese slices… and mushed it all together in a big pan.
The result?
Huge hit.
Everyone loved it. So much so that people started complaining there wasn’t enough. I was on a bit of a high… that is… until Karen came along.
Bloody Karen.
Every single morning, the cook crew is obliged to make porridge… for Karen. Sure…everyone is welcome to help themselves to it… but mostly it’s Karen that has to have it - because she “doesn’t eat eggs.” She’s made this quite clear from the very beginning of the tour, that there ALWAYS better be porridge because she “doesn’t eat eggs.”
**I won’t mention that I saw her order, receive and eat a cheese omelette the other day…
I’d made up a batch of plain porridge first thing in the morning… ensuring there was the usual amount. I even restrained from adding any fruit or honey… because “Karen” doesn’t like sweet porridge. Anyway, as things turn out, today was the day that a few unsuspecting people decided to have some porridge for breakfast. By the time Pissy Pants got up and over to eat… there was hardly any porridge left at all. Just some dried up lumps, clinging on to the side of the pot.
Now… for those of you that don’t know… porridge is VERY easy to make. Oats… boiled water… milk (maybe)… easy peasy monkey squeezy. I saw her look of fury as she glared into the empty pot… and I told her I’d happily make more. Karen chose the low road, becoming huffy and disgruntled… with her face twisted into that sour, miserable expression we all know so well. It pushed me over the edge.
I find it funny how the people who complain the most are always the last to show up. If you want something specific, “Karen,” maybe try being first up.
I snapped.
I told her, “You know what? Make it yourself. I’m sick of you always complaining.” That set her off. She started yelling at me that I had “ruined her day” and claimed all she was doing was “looking in the pot.” Honestly, I’ve reached my limit with these people. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
Karen.
Bloody Karen.
Next time she cooks, things are going to get real. I’ll be ready. Let’s see how she handles it. I can complain too.
Back on the bus, Persnickety Marilyn was everywhere. Her voice has the eerie ability to carry over everything. I had my headphones in, but somehow, her grating voice was still cutting through. I couldn’t hear anything else.
Just her.
We crossed out of Saudi Arabia again… and we ran into a few issues… again. It always surprises me when we have issues leaving a country. You’d think they’d just wave us out… “Bye!”
We had to stop several times at several different buildings, which dragged things out even more. It was just one of those days. Border guards were everywhere and they all wanted to see our passports. A lot.
There were women working at customs this time, which was a lovely change… and the Saudi border guard I had was named Jwana. We were kindred spirits immediately.
I shouldn’t have complained though…
The Kuwait border crossing was, without a single doubt, the worst I’ve ever experienced. The entire process was completely disorganized. Pure chaos. We were all crammed into a tiny room with multiple windows and told to take a number, fill out forms and then wait endlessly for our turn.
The ordeal began with having our passports checked at one window. Then we had to get another number for fingerprinting… in another building about 50m away. Once our fingerprints were taken, we needed to return to the original room to get another number in order to have our forms and fingerprints verified against our passports. After that… we were sent to yet another window to get a stamp… but instead of stamping our passports, they gave us stamped papers. With our stamped papers in hand, we then had to wait in another line until someone was available to stamp our passports.
To make things more confusing, the rules for visa payments weren’t consistent. Some of us had to pay while others didn’t. Canadians, for instance, had to pay… and so did the Kiwis. The British and the Americans didn’t, much to the American’s delight. I overheard him bragging about their military presence and blah blah blah… some other patriotic jargon. It was a frustrating, drawn-out process that tested everyone’s patience.
Of course, Stormin’ made it worse by constantly pushing to the front of every line, desperate to be first at every step. Eventually, I’d had enough. When it came time to get fingerprints done, I made sure I rushed ahead of him. I didn’t particularly care if I was first or not… but out of spite and principle, I had to do it.
Seriously, what is it with this obsessive need to be first?
In the end, it didn’t matter who was first or last. The entire ordeal took about four hours, and we couldn’t leave until every single one of us was through and back on the truck and had our passports stamped, our visas stamped and… if applicable… our receipt of payment. So all that rushing and shoving was pointless, Stormin’Norman, we weren’t going anywhere until the very last person was seated.
FOUR hours.
FOUR.
But at least we made it into Kuwait.
I liked Kuwait right away… though I am fully aware it’s had its share of instability and danger, particularly during the Gulf War. Today it is considered one of the safest countries in the region.
Here are some really cool things about Kuwait that people might not know…
~ It has a low crime rate and a stable political environment.
~ Women in Kuwait have more rights than most other Gulf countries. They can vote, run for office and work in various fields.
~ The country has a thriving culinary scene.
~ Expatriates make up a significant portion of Kuwait’s population and are vital to its economy.
I like to mention these things because I believe many of my friends and family are under the mistaken impression that these Gulf countries I’m visiting are war torn and military-heavy.
Nope.
None.
The warmth and hospitality of Arabic culture are unparalleled in all my years of traveling. Everywhere we go… stores, homes, hotels… we have been greeted with offers of tea or saffron coffee… and always, of course, by a plate of dates.
It’s heartbreaking how often Muslims receive such a bad rap in the media, and this feeling has been echoed by many people I’ve met along the way. Locals are constantly stopping to say hello, welcoming us to their country, asking curious questions about where we’re from and even snapping selfies with us.
There is the noticeable lack of alcohol in most of these countries, but we can’t really complain. Perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise. Considering the crew I’m stuck with… there is no chance of saying something foolish after a few too many. I’m also not wasting money and there will be no days lost to hangovers.
Win. Win. Win.
As we drove through the vast nothing of the desert and into Kuwait City, I couldn’t help but notice that all the houses looked like Tetris blocks. They definitely have a distinctive architectural style… like different geometrical shapes and boxy structures.
Traveling solo here would be fine. So far, I’ve found that most people are supportive, looking out for us, eager to lend a hand… and everything is conveniently in Arabic and English.
On our first night in Kuwait City, we had a group dinner to say goodbye to Jeff and Caroline, as they were leaving the tour. Shame… as they were two of my favourites. The list of people I am able to tolerate is diminishing. At this point, I feel like very, very soon… the cheese will stand alone.
I am the cheese.
We went to a Lebanese restaurant just around the corner from our hotel. It was lovely… but quite pricey. Mr. Meat sat next to me and managed to make a complete mockery of himself. From the moment he sat down, his manners were appalling. His chaotic dining habits were enough to test anyone’s patience.
Especially mine.
He had this disgusting and cringe-worthy habit of eating half of something and then tossing the rest onto the table, leaving his space in an absolute sty. Greasy chicken scraps, grains of rice, chewed-up pita bread and half-eaten vegetables were scattered everywhere… not only across the dining room table but also smeared all over his face. He quickly went from Mr. Meat to Mr. Mess.
But, funnily enough, that wasn’t the worst of it. He spent the entire meal grumbling about everything. He criticized the sauce for being too mild, complained that they didn’t have hot sauce and they didn’t cook things the “right” way. The entire time, he muttered under his breath, making derogatory remarks about the food, the country, the staff and the style of cooking. He was upset they didn’t fill up the complimentary items quickly enough for him and he even moaned (excessively) about the prices.
It was mortifying.
A couple of times, I tried to get him to calm down… relax… and keep his comments to himself, but he wouldn’t. At the end of the meal, they brought over the bills. Having worked in hospitality for years, I tipped generously. Mr. Meat/Mess left the equivalent of about 25¢. It was one of the most agonizing and humiliating meals I’ve ever endured in a public place… and honestly, I need a bit of a break from him for my own sanity.
From shopping to cook crew to sitting beside him for the dinner fiasco… I was definitely due for a Mr. Meat timeout.
Once bills were paid, the staff showed their appreciation for gratuities by presenting us with some complimentary desserts and a few baskets of fruit. Mr. Meat helped himself to nearly half of the fruit, stuffing it into his pants pockets to save for the next day’s lunch.
I can’t make this shit up.
Shameful.
Cringe.
Yep… a definite break from him is required.
Seriously, though, it’s getting worse and worse with these people. At this point, I’m feeling like I should just take this entire blog at the end of my trip… and hand it right over to Netflix to produce a series.
We spent three days in Kuwait City… and this time I was rooming with Rebekah (the occasional vegetarian). I really need to stop complaining about sharing rooms with these people because, truthfully, each and every one of them comes with their own quirks and frustrations… myself included, I’m positive. I just need to work on being more tolerant.
It’s tough though.
Really tough.
Rebekah is absolutely lovely, but she’s constantly walking on eggshells around everyone and trying to please. It’s draining.
For example, she’ll leave her nightlight on all night if she thinks I might need it, even though I’ve already turned mine off. If I’m on my phone, she assumes I’d prefer HER light to stay on. Her English isn’t fabulous, so trying to explain things is difficult…
Three days with her was sure to do me in.
On our first day here, Warren… to be clear - NOT Wazza/Geisha/Trump radical… or whatever you want to call him- and I decided to check out the Mirror House.
*not that I’d ever go anywhere with THAT Warren.
We’d read about the Mirror House in the usual research on “things to do in Kuwait.” It seemed like something slightly offbeat… and we figured it would be an interesting way to spend the morning. As it turned out, the Mirror House was also the home of the artist who decided to turn her entire home into a mosaic of mirrors.
What a bizarre thing to want to do…
I can understand one or two rooms… but the whole main floor? No. From word ‘go,’ it all sounded quite weird, creepy and a little tacky. After much back & forth… and online reservation forms… and (oddly enough) online health forms… we were set to explore the Mirror House at 10am, Saturday morning.
The House was about an hour’s walk from our hotel, so we set off just before 9am. When we arrived, everything started to seem slightly off. The gift shop was full of tacky, dusty trinkets… the kind you’d expect an eight-year-old to bring home from school as a birthday gift. We weren’t allowed to wear our shoes inside, but we also were not permitted to bring our own slippers. It was a cash grab as they sold brand new slippers… and charged a fee to rent used ones. Once inside, we sat in what I would assume was the living room… where the artist’s daughter gave us a tedious and lengthy explanation about how her mother started creating mirror mosaics in their house. Basically she took up twenty minutes of our time to say “I used to colour on the walls when I was young and so my mother decided to put up mirror pieces so that it would be easier to clean up the messes.”
I’ll never get that time back.
Once she finally finished, the artist herself, Mirror Lady, came forward to repeat the story. A few times. She was a tiny Italian woman dressed in a style that seemed like a mix of bohemian, mystical and vintage. For the duration of our tour, she wore a mask which dipped below her nostrils and only covered her mouth… so I failed to see the purpose. She was difficult to understand… and I attribute that to her broken English AND the silly mask. The narrative was long-winded, repetitious and her speech was incredibly slow. I never thought I’d admit his, but it was worse than listening to Persnickety. The tour was set to last for two hours, and after only five minutes, I knew I’d have trouble going the distance, with a smile on my face.
We weren’t allowed to explore the house on our own. Had we been permitted to move at our own pace, we could have wrapped it all up in under twenty minutes… and that would have included questions, photos, videos and selfies.
Although some of the mirror mosaics were interesting to see… it was all quite tacky. Especially for a home. The walls were lined with broken mirror pieces depicting planets, sea life and verses from the Quran.
Once the photos were taken and we endured her lengthy explanations of each room, she’d turn off the lights, shut the door… and essentially trap us inside. Then came the creepy music and strobe lights, forcing us to sit through what can only be described as a sensory nightmare. I could maybe understand the purpose of this if the lights had interacted with the mirrors in some reflective and artistic way… but they didn’t. At all.
The real centerpiece of this pitch-black spectacle? Glow-in-the-dark plastic stars glued all over the ceiling, the walls and the floor. Those cheap, five-pointed stars from the dollar store were everywhere.
We weren’t the only victims of this eerie absurdity. Another family, visiting from Lebanon, was stuck on the “tour” with us. They were equally as unimpressed with the charade. The Lebanese woman, an interior designer, had joined out of curiosity to see mirror mosaics in a home setting. At one point, she politely asked the Mirror Lady if she ever taught classes, had apprentices or did design commissions in other homes.
Valid question.
But Creepy Mirror Lady raged at this suggestion, declaring, with unmistakable indignation, that she “DOES NOT go into other people’s homes because her late husband would never permit such behavior.”
Ok.
It was as if she’d been asked to do something scandalous. Like… be a prostitute.
It all took a turn when the Lebanese woman, clearly unimpressed by glow-in-the-dark stars and dark rooms, declined to enter another one. Creepy Mirror Lady became enraged, accusing her of not “appreciating art.”
Art?
It was ridiculous. The entire scenario. I couldn’t blame the Lebanese woman. We were all over it. I didn’t like the tacky dark rooms either… but now I was scared of Creepy Mean Mirror Lady.
Upstairs was a maze of glow-in-the-dark rooms… the Galaxy Room, the Relaxation Room, the Art Therapy Room, and so on… each with its own collection of plastic stars meant to impress us in complete darkness. Every time we approached one, she’d nudge me forward, urging me to follow Warren inside to “be with my husband.” If I hesitated or refused, she’d chastise me, claiming I was ruining my “husband’s” artistic experience. Finally, I corrected her, explaining that Warren was ONLY my fiancé… and I wasn’t even sure I wanted to fully commit to him yet.
The moment the other family left, Creepy Mean Mirror Lady turned her frustration on me. Now I was the problem… too rushed, too impatient and… worst of all… incapable of appreciating her art.
My buffer was gone.
I was her target.
To be fair, I was in a hurry… a hurry to escape this bizarre clown house. And no, I didn’t appreciate her silly “art.” While the mirror mosaics were interesting up to a point, the rest of her creations were spooky and muddled and tasteless… such as finger paintings and random objects glued to canvases, like doll heads and rope. One “masterpiece” was a dead dog hanging from a noose above a fireplace.
I cannot make this up.
Nothing about her absurd work inspired me to do anything but escape as fast as I could. Being there was unsettling.
She then started to lean a bit too heavily into politics for my taste, and it felt like her “tour” became a way to spread her own agenda. I told Warren we should get out before we got murdered and baked into a pie or immortalized on one of her canvases.
We made it out alive.
We jumped in a taxi and made it back to the hotel just in time to join the crew and leave for the camel racing. Our Mirror House tour was supposed to continue on for another FORTY minutes… but we cut it short… much to Creepy Mean Mirror Lady’s dismay.
We had a date with the camels…
It was Sue, who originally suggested that everyone go camel racing and of course, my initial thought and reaction was, “no way.“ I really don’t know anything about camel racing, but as I’m so adamant about not riding camels, I figured it would be extremely hypocritical of me to participate in this group activity. When I discovered that absolutely every single person on the tour (except Stormin’ and Kind Brian)was going, I opted to be open minded. I didn’t really wanted to be left out.
I had to do my own research beforehand though.
The very last thing I wanted was to step into a scene of animal cruelty. I discovered that;
~ Camel races usually cover distances between 4 to 10 kilometers (2.5 to 6 miles), depending on the camels' age and the track.
~ Racing camels can reach speeds of up to 65 km/h (40 mph) in short sprints and sustain 40 km/h (25 mph) over longer distances.
~ Racing camels are fed a special diet including dates, milk, honey and sometimes eggs to enhance their performance.
~ To address ethical concerns, especially regarding child jockeys, robot jockeys are now widely used. These lightweight devices are remote-controlled by trainers.
~ Stricter regulations have been introduced in many countries to ensure the welfare of camels, including limits on race length, weight carried and veterinary care.
I’m glad I went.
It wasn’t just a historically significant cultural event…
it was a blast. So fun.
The races were wild!
As soon as the camels were released, vehicles would speed off alongside them, chasing them down the track. Marianne made the circuit three times for three different races, and Martin was having the time of his life, tearing down the course.
I think most of the locals spent more time looking at us, than watching the race.
For the final lap, we headed into the clubhouse and watched the race on the TV screens, enjoying the view from the comfort of plush armchairs. We relaxed… watched the race from a more leisurely vantage point… and sipped our saffron coffee and dined on dates.
Always dates…
The poem I got ChatGPT to write for Jeff & Caroline… with my prompting, of course!
THE POEM
Thanks for joining us, what a ride we’ve had,
Through desert sands like a true nomad.
Across the Middle East, we roamed so far,
Under the sun and the evening star.
From Arabic countries with culture so deep,
To nights in the desert where we barely could sleep.
Through mosques and museums, caves, and forts,
A journey of malls, corniches and ports.
With passports packed and new cultures near,
Currency exchanges and visas to clear.
You’ve endured long borders, the X-rays, the cold,
Truck life’s a challenge, it’s tough on the old!
Cook crew duty and camps in the dark,
Sandstorms and windstorms have left their mark.
Sleeping on dirt, on rocks and on sand,
Tents flying off, unknown waters & land.
“Remember no nesting!” so get on your way,
Finding a spot for nature’s call every day.
Scrambled eggs, instant coffee, meals on the go,
Shopping at LuLu’s made it less of a woe.
Dates sweet as honey, laughter that heals,
And songs that made us forget Marianne’s wheels.
Beating heat, chilly nights, strong winds that blew,
You’ve stuck it out, and we’re proud of you.
Rosanna’s guitar will miss your strumming at night,
As Marianne rolls on, it won’t feel quite right.
Now we bid farewell as we leave you in Kuwait,
With stories and jokes that were truly first-rate.
Fill up your water, toss tents to the breeze,
Say goodbye to buffets and travel to the UK with ease.
Cheerio, dear friends, we’ll miss your cheer,
Marianne’s wheels roll on, but we’ll wish you were here!
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