F-Grade

Wheels were rollin’ out of Kuwait early and we all waved goodbye to Jeff and Caroline.

I was so sad to see them go.

First Judy… now them. The fun factor was diminishing. Jeff wrote a message for us on Marianna’s whiteboard.

The dusty travellers faced each other off. After a long, stoic silence, all aware of the parting of the ways, one suddenly made a sound and started shaking. The others said, “Fear not, Marianna. Drive forward. May your traffic lights always be green.” And then they were gone…

Back to the border.

Again.

We were all quite over slugging our way through borders. We’d done so many so far. And the going out was just as brutal and time-consuming as the going in…

… out of the UAE…

Into Oman / Out of Oman

Into Saudi / Out of Saudi

Into Qatar / Out of Qatar

Into Saudi / Out of Saudi

Into Bahrain / Out of Bahrain

Into Saudi / Out of Saudi

Into Kuwait / Out of Kuwait

… and then again… back into Saudi Arabia… for the 4th time. This time we’re here for three weeks, though… so it was going to be a well deserved break from the world of border patrol.

The real question was… could I make it another three weeks?

No.

Every time I asked myself that question… it was the same answer.

Today… No.

Tomorrow… No.

Yesterday… No.

The day before yesterday? No.

Always No… but don’t tell Vic and Tania that for fear they’ll consider me an emotional yo-yo.

You know what? I am emotional. I’ll admit it. I’m sensitive too… and anyone who knows me, knows that. But honestly, I’m not being overly emotional or sensitive… I’m just genuinely miserable being on this tour… with these people. If being emotional means I truly can’t stand the majority of people I’m stuck with, then so be it.

Lock me away.

I hardly need have my weaknesses thrown in my face because I’m not having as much fun as everyone else…

That’s a laugh. No one is having fun. Fun is not a thing with this crew. I think that’s what missing… fun, team spirit, enthusiasm,laughter, camaraderie, entertainment… wit…

People sit on the bus and read their Lonely Planet books… click their pictures… visit museums… spot birds… eat… wash their underwear in the sink… and are in bed by 8pm, ready for repeat repeat repeat in the morning. That’s a typical day. Nothing more… nothing less…

There is no adventure.

These people aren’t used to true adventure. They don’t know true adventure. They only want to remain safe, sheltered and stoic… inside the protection of the big orange bus… with someone driving them around and someone else telling them where to go and when… and how.

It was a long day on the road, but in all fairness, it could’ve been longer. We were at the Saudi/Kuwait borders for two & a half hours. Once we’d all cleared, we headed back into the Saudi desert… traveling a long way to find a campsite. By the time the sun set, it was freezing… bitingly and Baltic.

On cold nights like this, none of us wanted to sit outside for dinner. Instead, we huddle together in the truck, clinging to every bit of warmth we can find. That evening, I casually remarked that I was going to freeze to death during the night. Obviously, I’m speaking metaphorically. I’m fairly sure it’s a normal thing to say when anticipating a frigid night.

Stormin’ Norm, however, latched onto the saying and wouldn’t let it go. By morning, he was making the rounds, telling everyone I was a “ghost.” He thought it was hysterical. Maybe it would have been slightly funny if he’d said it once… to me. But no, he spent the entire morning repeating it to everyone, so much so that everyone started coming up to me and asking, “What does Norman mean when he says you’re dead?”

I stopped responding.

Sometimes I feel like I’m in a low-budget, B-grade film. No… it’s not even in a B-grade film… It’s a solid D or an E.

Or an F.

Definitely an F.

I’m in a no-budget, F-grade film… and if it’s a comedy… I fail to see the humour. I think I’ve mentioned before that my astonishing wit is wasted on this crew. Maybe it’s my wit that’s the problem. Maybe I’m the one that’s not funny… ???

Nah…

Inconceivable.

There have been countless moments when my humour has been absolutely off the charts… A1 quality… only to be met with pure confusion, misinterpretation, debate or complete disregard. So many times, something hilarious I said went right over everyone’s head… utterly incomprehensible.

These people.

I am aware that I do speak about leaving the tour… so much… but on the other hand, I feel like I’ve been given so much material to work with… and I really shouldn’t be wasteful.

But… it’s draining me…

Take the whole Creepy Mean Mirror Lady “fiancé” comment, for example. It wasn’t big or cleaver. Sure… it was marginally funny when I initially said it… and it was definitely amusing enough to share with a few people on the truck. But… like so many things on this trip… it got dragged out and beaten to death. Some of them are still using it as their main focal point of humour… and at this point, it’s like a bad smell that just won’t go away.

The worst part?

None of them have even managed to use it in a genuinely side-splitting way. Not once. To them, it’s their comedy gold… but it’s F-grade humour… at best.

And we all know what the F stands for.

All this, despite the whole “freezing to death” and “ghost” calamity… it actually hadn’t been too bad of a night. We’d found a lovely spot to camp in the desert. Initially, it looked rocky, but we ended up at a slightly better location with softer ground… though it was covered in those annoying prickly burrs. They managed to stick all over my feet, my shoes, my clothes, my tent, and pretty much everything else. Freezing to death, though a significant concern, had not been my primary concern.

Not even the rocks.

Or the prickly burrs.

Or my fractured wrist.

Or my arthritic knee.

Or my bone spur heel.

Or these… people.

My greatest concern had been the atrocious amount of burrowed holes all over the desert. What lived below?

Snakes?

For the love of God… what had I signed up for?

Seriously, these holes were everywhere… and this looked decidedly like snake territory… and no one seemed to know what caused them. I was convinced they were snake holes. Someone suggested “rats,” which did nothing to calm me. Sue chimed in, reminding me to keep my tent zipped up at all times in order to avoid any snakes slithering inside.

Thanks, Sue.

Seriously?

Why am I even here? Camping, prickly burrs, rocks, rats, snakes, camel poo and freezing nights. Come to the Middle East, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. Despite all of that, the night turned out to be surprisingly tolerable. I actually slept quite well, for a change. It was cold, but not as deathly bitter as previous nights had been. Maybe I’m finally mastering the art of layering my sleeping bag and blankets for maximum warmth.

Every single person on the tour has said to me, at one point or another… “You’re Canadian! How can you be cold?”

It irks me when people say such ridiculous things. I’m sure all travelling Canadians would agree. Are they implying that we don’t get cold? Do they think I live in an igloo or that I just roam the earth with sone kind of polar protective coating?

I don’t like the cold.

I leave Canada in the winter.

Out.

During one of my shopping trips, I’d picked up a blanket for Secret Santa. Denise was who I pulled out of the hat… and I figured a blanket was a safe and thoughtful choice. After all, we’d all been complaining about the cold.

That evening, as I tried to bundle myself in for the night, I was briefly tempted to unwrap the gift and use the blanket myself. I resisted the temptation though… and thankfully, I made it through the night without needing it.

Christmas Eve day was a bit of a letdown. For a day we normally build up as monumental, it was surprisingly underwhelming and disappointing.

Sue, Warren & me

Our first stop was Al Oqiylat Heritage Museum. Sure… it was colourful, rich in history and somewhat interesting to briefly look about… but everything was written in Arabic. Without any translations, we couldn’t make sense of a single word. There was a photo of someone with John Wayne… and the guide kept urging us to come take a look, but there was no context beyond the fact that someone from Saudi Arabia had been to Hollywood. They welcomed us in… offered us coffee and treated us to plates of dates, which, of course, we all loved… and devoured. We felt like it would be rude if we didn’t eat them all.

Right?

Our next stop was the National Museum… a colossal building that promised way more than it delivered. We were given an hour and a half to explore, but as soon as we walked in, we discovered that only a small section of the main floor was open to the public. We finished seeing the entire museum in mere minutes. With nothing else to do, we spent the rest of the time sitting on the steps outside, wandering aimlessly through a little park… and biding our time by the truck until Martin and Rosanna returned to take us to the next destination.

Our next destination…

This one really took the cake… or should I say, the date? We ventured to what was supposed to be Saudi Arabia’s largest date market. The buildup to this excursion had been enormous, almost as enormous as the market itself was rumoured to be. Supposedly, it was the size of an airline hangar… though, to be honest… I have absolutely no idea how big an airline hangar is.

Large?

Small?

Medium?

Actually, I’m not even sure what an airline hangar is.

What we encountered was a humungous building… two of them, actually. Both were shut tight and clearly under construction. It looked as though the construction had been abandoned years ago, like the workers just walked off mid-job and never came back. There was no sign of any renovations being completed anytime soon.

The parking lot was equally as massive, but eerily empty. In one corner, there was a row of stalls where a handful of men were selling dates. We were the ONLY customers there… and 98% of us had no interest in buying any. As much as I love dates… and I devour them when they’re presented, I know I can’t buy them. If I start nibbling on them, I’ll end up eating them all… and then I’ll be dealing with the ‘crappy’ consequences.

One of the vendors grabbed Sue’s boob… don’t ask… and in return, she walked away with two free boxes of dates. She claimed she’d been flirting with him, but beyond that, I have no idea what actually happened… and honestly, I didn’t care enough to ask. I’ve hit the point where I’ve stopped paying attention. I just can’t listen to any of them anymore.

As for the dates she got, they taste more like dried camel feed than anything edible, so most of us have been politely declining her offers to share.

Like at the National Museum earlier, we were dropped off and left there for over an hour while the truck went to refuel.

And so we sat.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

The day felt like one long, never-ending nightmare.

Hold on… am I describing the entire tour???

Long days in Marianna are tough. Most of the time, we just sit around doing absolutely nothing… driving through a vast, barren land of emptiness… sometimes for hours on end.

We’re stagnant.

I can feel myself getting more and more sluggish and gaining weight, rapidly. All I do is sit on the bus and eat. I’ve considered getting some small hand weights or something to help me stay active, but I know I’d probably abandon them as quickly as I picked them up. Still, it’s a consideration.

So far, Saudi Arabia has been fairly underwhelming. It hasn’t captivated me like so many other countries I’ve visited. It feels like a big place built for tourism without any actual tourists. There are bike lanes… but no bikes; walkways… but no pedestrians; enormous malls… but hardly any shoppers. They’ve built overhead skytrains, but there are no rails. Even the bathrooms in some malls are the size of two regular homes. Seriously… the lot of them are massive spaces with nothing but wasted space.

The parking lots are usually all empty. The museums are empty. The cultural centres are empty. The date markets are empty. The souqs are empty. Even the border crossings are bafflingly empty.

These borders are seriously colossal in size… with lane after lane after lane after lane… and so many buildings… and fences… and signs directing you to even more buildings and lanes. Each crossing takes forever to get through… despite the undeniable fact that it’s all empty and we’re usually the only ones there.

Eerie.

Saudi Arabia recently won the bid to host the 2034 FIFA World Cup. I can’t help but wonder how they’ll manage with that. Fanatical football fans flooding all the borders will be one chaotic concern… but what about the alcohol portion of the festivities? This is a dry country… and I can’t imagine how they’ll handle the inevitable outrage from fans expecting to drink beer.

Eeek…

There are going to have to be some temporary changes or there are bound to be major issues.

For now though, Saudi is dry, dry, dry.

That means:

~ No alcohol on Christmas Eve.

~ No alcohol on Christmas Day.

~ No alcohol on New Year’s Eve.

This is shaping up to be a strange holiday season… and without alcohol, it’s going to take me three more weeks to figure out what makes Norman stutter.

Hmmmmmm…

On Christmas Eve night, we stayed in an apartment-style hotel complex in Buraidah, a small town in the middle of the desert. Each unit had three bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen and two bathrooms. I shared mine with Mickey, Sue, Karen and Denise. It was fine… and zero drama. We were all keeping ourselves busy trying to get into the holiday spirit with various festive activities.

Mickey and Karen worked on streamers to decorate the truck for the following day. I wrapped presents with plastic bags, packing tape and children’s dinosaur stickers. I’d picked up a few small gifts for some people… not everyone.

Not Persnickety.

Imagine trying to shop for everyone on this tour? Actually… it would’ve been quite easy…

Karen - I already said I’d buy her a pot & some instant porridge.

Mr. Meat - a bib to catch all the food he discards.

Mickey - some kind of military outfit and a framed photo of the guides.

Warren - deodorant. Lots of it.

Persnickety Marilyn - tweezers to pull the whiskers from her face.

I could go on… and it would definitely be a fun shop… but I should stop, as I’m being quite mean.  I need to practice my kindness and tolerance… as it was Christmas Eve.

Tis’ the season to be kind and tolerant.

I MUST be kind and tolerant.

I figured if I said it to myself enough times, I would be both. Kind. Tolerant. Kind. Tolerant. Kind. Tolerant. Kind. Tolerant. Kind. Tolerant.

Nope…

To be fair, I did buy a lot of Christmas chocolate and treats, so technically, I did buy everyone a present. That’s kind. Right? And I’d also volunteered (financially) to contribute an appetizer for Christmas dinner. That’s kind…

My Christmas spirit was strong.

But speaking of being kinder and more tolerant… my MAIN task on Christmas Eve was something I’d initially avoided: making a birthday video for Rosanna. Her birthday was on Boxing Day… and while Mickey and Martin had been whispering and plotting about it, they’d actually done absolutely nothing.

Typical.

So… I stepped in.

I went from room to room, filming anyone I could find. Everyone was surprisingly cooperative… and those who weren’t around, either found me later or sent me their own clip. Over the past few weeks, I’d filmed little snippets of everywhere we’d been, so I used some of that footage to fill in the blanks and make the video longer.

How do I get myself into these things?

It’s simple… I’m an idiot and it’s usually me that raises my hand and volunteers. I’ve GOT to stop doing that. In the end, it wasn’t so bad. I even had a bit of fun putting it together.

A very, very little bit…

Tiny.

Just me and a Saudi kid I met, with braces

Only one passenger refused to participate in the videogram.

The Geisha.

Apparently he’s from a Calvin religion background and he (and I quote) “doesn’t celebrate birthdays, Christmas - or any holiday, for that matter.” He went as far as to say that it made him really uncomfortable to be celebrating Rosanna’s birthday and he’d “prefer not to contribute to the video.”

Hmmmm… wonder what he’ll be doing on Trump’s birthday?

He’s a clown.

All he had to say was “hope you have a nice day” and Rosanna would have been over the moon at the effort. It wasn’t like I’d tasked him with planning a Strawberry Shortcake party at Chucky Cheese.

Bet he’ll be all over the Christmas chocolates and the birthday cake though…

In fact… I can pretty much guarantee it.

Stay tuned….