Following the disastrous veal ratatouille, a few of us gathered to indulge a bit too excessively in the remaining wine we’d brought along.
It was our camping compensation. Whether or not it was a good or bad decision, I’ve yet to determine…
Was it a good decision?
Well, it led to plenty of laughter and gave some of us the chance to connect on an intoxicated level. The wine helped us relax, savour the tranquility and starry evening ambiance of the dunes. In the end, though we may have overindulged, most of us passed out and slept soundly through the night. So that was a bonus.
Was it a bad decision?
Waking up hungover in a sweltering tent is challenging enough, but the ordeal doesn’t end there. Packing up camping gear in the relentless heat and sand takes it to another level. Add the responsibility of cooking breakfast for everyone… and an evening of overindulgence swiftly transforms into gruelling morning reality.
Breakfast worked out so much better than veal ratatouille.
We kept it simple.
Scrambled eggs.
I put Mr. Meat on it and he proved to be much better at eggs than veal. I was tempted to add peppers and spice to everything… but I behaved.
Throw THAT in the bin, Karen!
It’s a lot of work on cook crew. Getting all the food out… coffee & tea… cooking supplies… pots & pans… along with setting up the dishes, chairs, tables and wash station.
And then you have to turn around and put it all away again.
Not sure how long my lower back will be able to take this. Or my arthritic knee… or my deformed heal…
I’m falling apart.
The schedule works so that each crew cooks one evening, then the following breakfast… and then that evening, they clean the truck.
There are only two passengers not on cook crew. One is a British girl named Mickey and the other is an American, Brian. Not Mr. Meat.
We have two Warrens and two Brians.
Mickey is… how do I describe Mickey?
Hmmmm….
She’s incredibly tough-built and abrupt… I have a hunch that she might be a lesbian, though she’s never actually come right out and said that. She’s got an athletic physique and an apparent passion for fitness, which she frequently brings up.
When we first joined the tour, I genuinely mistook her for one of the guides because she assumed this self-proclaimed position of authority. Her confidence can be slightly overbearing, and she often seems to “survey” the group, as though assessing her people and her domain.
I can’t help but wonder if she’s compensating for something, perhaps lingering insecurities. I don’t know. She seems to have a particular admiration for the tour guides, and rarely lets them out of her sight if they’re around. She’s taken on the executive role of managing the luggage & tents, a responsibility that seems to have fueled her sense of authority and superiority even further. While her initiative is commendable, it’s also clear that this ‘power’ and ‘air of significance’ might not be doing her ego any favours.
She’s expressed an interest in becoming a guide, but I’m not convinced she would hold up to the demands of dealing with such a wide range of people… for such a long stretch of time. I definitely couldn’t. While she can be friendly, she lacks the real joyous, long-term charisma typically needed for that role.
I do liked her… and I’ve tried to get a read on her character, but it’s been difficult for me to pin down. I will have to give it time. It feels like she often rapidly inserts herseld into conversations, perhaps to assert her presence, though I can’t put my finger on it. What stands out most is her tendency to adapt her comments to align with those she admires. She seems particularly captivated by Rosanna and Martin, to the point where it borders on fixation.
To sum it all up… she has a tattoo of the big orange overland truck/bus we’re on… on her front forearm.
I can’t make this shit up.
But… I’ve only just met her. Time will tell…
Our big stop of the day… besides the mall… was the Liwa Date Factory.
I initially thought, “How boring for us to be at a date factory.” Was there nothing better to do with our time? But I was pleasantly surprised! There were free dates out and WIFI. Yay for WIFI!
Although the walk through the date factory was a little blasé, this date had a happy ending… as hilarious as that sounds…
Delicious chocolate covered dates.
There are a lot of flies in the UAE. They’re everywhere and each time you swat at one, it seems to repetitively fly back into your face with more fly friends. It’s infuriating. I couldn’t help but wonder how many flies made it into the mushed up date sauce.
It gives a whole new perspective to the enjoyment of date squares and date cookies.
Once again, Karen managed to turn a pleasant experience into a pure spectacle with another childish outburst. One of the factory workers was taking photos and filming our group for a promotional video, but Karen didn’t approve. She erupted in to rage, acting as if she were some sort of celebrity or secret agent, instead of just another scruffy overlander like the rest of us.
She refused to move from the lobby… and remained there, in a huff, until we were finished the tour.
She’s a piece of work.
And she just keeps getting better…
We left the date factory and drove a few hours through the barren desert to our camp for the night. It took awhile again for the guides to decide on a place to pull in, much to Yellow & Thin Lizzy’s dismay. The area chosen was nice, and conveniently located next to a “DO NOT SWIM skull & crossbones DANGER” signed lake and a very messy garbage dump. I make it sound horrible, but in actual fact, it was quite lovely.
The cook crew for the evening was Denise, a German man named Harold and the Geisha…
Why do I call him the Geisha?
Well, it didn’t start out that way at all. This is how it happened…
After our veal ratatouille disaster, Mr. Meat made a comment to me that he couldn’t wait until Warren/Wazza/Geisha was on cook crew because he was a professional chef.
Ok… wow… I was thoroughly impressed we had a professional chef with us. Perfect. It wasn’t until they were cooking their meal that evening that Denise brought it to my attention he wasn’t a professional chef at all.
He worked in a CANTEEN when he was younger. That put a whole new swing on things.
If kitchen work in our teens & twenties was the sole requirement, I think we’d all be professional chefs.
The Geisha is clearly gay… though to my knowledge, he’s never explicitly said so. I would be flabbergasted if I discovered he wasn’t. Honestly. I’ve come to this conclusion through his commitment to posture, the slight wiggle in his walk and the way he casually rests the back of his wrist on his hip when he’s standing around. He has classic teapot pose.
Here’s the actual description of it…
”The feminine stance of wrist on hips, often called the “teapot pose,” involves placing one or both hands on the hips with the wrists slightly flexed outward. Unlike the more rigid or squared-off “hands on hips” posture, this variation has a fluid, relaxed quality that is often associated with femininity.”
He’s a tall, larger man with a quite jolly-looking, round face. His shirts tend to be a bit too snug for his big belly, and more often than not, his shorts ride up a little too high, always looking uncomfortably wedged between his butt cheeks.
He’s also pompous…
He has horrendous manners and a tendency to fart and/or burp within mere centimetres of anyone within his vicinity.
Anyway, in casual (and private) conversation, and because I refused to say ‘Wazza,’ I started calling him ‘the gay chef.’ It wasn’t even a nickname… just a private descriptor for ME to distinguish between the two Warrens.
Not always being the most discrete… I used the silly name when Judy was telling me a story that involved one of the Warrens.
I asked here to specify, “Warren or the Gay Chef?”
She looked confused, trying to figure out what I meant by “Gay Chef.” I tried to quickly explain my uncomplimentary distinguisher… as simply as I could.
“He’s gay… and he says he’s a chef.”
Crickets…
Blank looks…
Incomprehension…
It went back & forth, but each and every clarification I tried to give was met with even more bewilderment.
Finally she admitted, “I understand the gay part and the chef part… I just don’t get the Japanese context.”
What????
What Japanese context????
She thought I was saying “Geisha.”
Not gay chef…
So… Geisha he shall now be…
I was thoroughly exhausted from my cooking, drinking, cooking, driving, cleaning day… and was in bed/tent as soon as dinner was finished.
I should’ve fallen asleep as soon as my head hit my blow-up roll mat… but I didn’t. I probably would have, had it not been for my midnight sweats, the barking dogs and the midgies… and the sand.
As much as I try to get rid of it… if there is sand around, it clings to me and refuses to let go.
I’ve also yet to master the intricacies of my sleeping bag. I did buy the cheapest one, which indicates that most of the problems are solely the fault of no one but myself. One side zips all the way up and the other side, only half way. The zipper tends to get stuck a lot… or come unhinged altogether… and usually at the most inopportune moments. For the life of me, I could not get comfortable. Regulating my body temperature felt like a lost cause, and I was either trapped in stifling confinement or shivering.
Have I mentioned how much I hate camping?
In the middle of the night, I just wanted to scream out, “Is there an upgrade option?”
There wasn't…
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