Our overland truck’s name is Marianne and she’s big, beastly, brute, bright orange and a force to be reckoned with. She’s 4WD, seats 22 passengers, has a load of compartments around the base, a big square fridge inside, a couple safes and a charging station. She’s like a heavy-duty tourist freighter.
As with most troop travel, there are many rules & regulations we are all required to follow.
There is to be no nesting… at least… there’s not supposed to beany nesting. This means there should be no settling in to any one seat for the long haul. You shouldn’t just pick yourself a seat for the duration of the two month voyage, as much as you might want to. We are encouraged to move seats daily, in order to give everyone a chance for window, aisle, table, legroom, front, back… etc etc. So far, everyone has been quite considerate of this etiquette rule… but there are always exceptions to the rule.
Mr. Meat and Lutz seem to have found the seats they are most comfortable in… and have not budged from them since we set out from Dubai.
As I mentioned earlier, it’s probably in everyone’s best interest to let Mr. Meat do whatever he wants (to a certain extent) and keep him happy. The repercussions might be more severe than that of losing out on a back window seat with ample leg room. As for Lutz… well, he’s 84 and has already suffered the misfortune of losing an eye… so I’m sure we can all make an exception for him as well.
The rest of us rotate seats daily.
We are not permitted to keep any liquids in the storage space above because apparently something once burst and dripped all over everyone and everything. Seems reasonable.
We are not allowed to keep any personal food in the fridge, which is a bit of a shame. It’s easy to understand that it might get slightly out of control with 22 different shipping bags of various crap.
We are never to approach or speak to the driver (Martin) while he’s driving. That is understandable. He seems somewhat tortured when he’s driving anyway, so I doubt any of is would feel terribly comfortable distracting him anyway.
Usually it’s Mickey who takes it upon herself to enforce these rules… along with a slew of others, like putting windows up, locking doors…
She’s always barking something or other at us.
Just tune out.
Anyway… we were on our way to a camel market. I hadn’t really given much thought to it, nor did I pay much mind as to how I was dressed in order to visit the camel market.
Did you have to dress up to visit a camel market?
Did I even want to go to a camel market?
I didn’t even really know what a camel market was.
Did they slaughter the camels there?
Would there be camel meat to buy?
Did they trade the camels?
Did they race the camels?
Did they ride the camels?
I didn’t know.
Still don’t.
I really wasn’t bothered either way… if I went to the camel market or if I didn’t go to the camel market. It certainly didn’t occur to me how I was dressed for the camel market. It was Sue who brought to my attention that I probably would not be permitted camel-market-entry wearing the tight shorts that I had on.
My tight shorts.
Again… here I was, Joanna McBride, scantily clad.
Between my tight pants and my tight shorts… I was beginning to feel like nothing but a cheap concubine. Any item of clothing I had, that could be regarded as camel-market-appropriate, was in my bag, locked away in the back of the Marianne…
And there was no way Mickey was going to go searching for my specific piece of luggage.
So… I did what any common streetwalker would do, I resigned myself to not visiting the camel market… and took to the streets.
This working girl would find something else to do. I set off… determined to find something to amuse me for an hour or so.
There were quite a few shops scattered around the outskirts of the inner workings of the camel market, but as far as I could tell, they were all veterinary clinic, equipment emporiums and feed outlets.
Not exactly my style.
Instead, I found myself an Al Ain grease spoon. In I went, sat myself down and enjoyed an orange juice & some kind of creamy peanut square, while a room full of inquisitive men fixated on me. I’m sure they were wondering how and why this inappropriately dressed harlot had wandered into their domain.
It was just me and my tight shorts against the camel market world.
To be clear… they aren’t exactly tight shorts, so to speak. My shorts have been labelled poorly! They’ve been misunderstood. I’ve painted a picture of me depicting myself strutting through the desert in Daisy Dukes, but I assure you I am not. They’re like bicycle shorts meet cotton leggings.
Casual.
… and highly appropriate everywhere else in the world… except here.
Turns out I could’ve walked straight into the camel market, had I truly wanted to, and not one single person would’ve batted an eye. No one, and I repeat no one, was checking for appropriate outfits.
What exactly is appropriate for a camel market, anyway?
Fur?
I was being very responsible in my tight shorts. At exactly the time that I’d been given for Marianne’s departure, I was very diligent and ensured I was waiting in the exact location I’d been told to wait… but I couldn’t shake the feeling ‘what if I get left behind?’
I must say… the feeling was one of hope, rather than dread.
I’ve been having a few “What have I done?” moments on this tour so far.
Seriously…What am I doing on this tour? Why am I with these people ?
I don’t mean to sound regretful or unappreciative… or Karen bitter or Karen-miserable… but…
It’s been tough.
The appropriate word is: Disappointed.
Even if you don’t factor in the ages, there aren’t a lot of people on the tour I really like. At all. Sure… some of them are interesting… and nice… but do I want to be confined to a bus/truck with the lot of them?
No.
Do I want to be grouped together with this clutter of eccentric characters until January 19th?
No.
Will I change my mind?
Doubtful.
But… heavens to Betsy… eventually Marianne came barrelling down that dusty road… filled with my two month crew of weird & wonderfuls… and I got back onboard.
Send help.
It must be arduous, as a tour guide, dealing with a group of wild and whacko people that all have very differing opinions of how things should be done… or how they particularly want things done. I’ve been in a tour group dynamic like this on more than on occasion and the best course of action is always ‘simple.’
Simple works the best.
When things get even the slightest bit complicated, people get confused… and pandemonium ensues.
Simple keeps chaos at bay. But… there are always those travellers that can’t accept ‘simple,’ no matter how much it benefits the group, as a whole. It’s like they possess a pestering little voice inside their head instructing them to make every step as difficult as possible.
They forget we can only go as fast as our slowest person.
Rosanna came to the back and announced we had arrived in Al Ain. Their original plan was to park Marianne at the palace but because it ended up being closed, she suggested that we park at the Al Ain Fort. The fort was within walking distance of both the Al Ain Oasis and the main centre of town.
Ok! Perfect.
The plan was made. Marianne headed out onto the road and the plan was IN action.
We hadn’t been in traffic more than two minutes, when the debate began about how the Oasis might be a better location to park. Some of them almost threw a mutiny with their hands up, in favour of this new suggestion.
No.
Of course, their only train of thought was less walking. Laziness.
Shut up.
Hands down.
The decision was made and we’re following through with it.
Walk.
Keep it simple.
Always simple.
We parked at the Al Ain Fort and from there, it was a mere 10 minute walk over to the Oasis.
The fort was well preserved and it reminded me a lot of the Friendly Giant’s castle. The entire time we were there, I couldn’t help but think “Look up! Look way up!”
The Oasis wasn’t exactly what any of us had been anticipating. I’d envisioned palm trees, lush foliage, vibrant gardens, cascading waterfalls, babbling brooks, crystal pools, lily pads… nature’s wonderland.
Who wouldn’t?
Granted… yes… there were a lot of palm trees. The Al Ain Oasis was a large garden park and home to 150 different varieties of palm trees. It had a few cobblestone paths winding their way through the park, but each road was barricaded with 5ft mud walls on each side.
Thinking it might be lovely to see the Oasis, before we really knew the extent of what it really entailed, Denise and I rented a quadracycle. It was like a double seater golf cart, but with pedals instead of an engine. We initially figured it would be an enjoyable, entertaining and effortless way to boot around the Oasis, but it ended up being rather laborious. Cycling the two of us lumps around was one thing. Add in an awkward metal contraption and four rather large, wonky tires was another thing entirely. My knees kept hitting the steering wheel and if we weren’t both in sync for alignment, the clunky buggy would veer ways all weird and wonderful.
We hadn’t been down the path three minutes and our phones were out for selfies to document our enthralling exercise excursion.
We were certainly paying far too much attention to how we looked on camera than where our cart wheels were headed… and BOOM! … we smashed right into the wall.
No damage was done.
No one was hurt.
Phones and driving don’t mix… obviously. We learned our lesson.
Apart from the occasional piece of art scattered around the park, the Oasis was quite humdrum. A few times we rounded a corner and encountered one of our Madventure passengers, who was wandering aimlessly, disappointed, and looking for the good tropical garden bit & bites of the ‘oasis’… and we would have to inform them… this was it.
The Oasis was a bit of a let down. Doesn’t the word oasisautomatically imply some kind of lavish and heavenly, tropical paradise?
No.
I was beyond ecstatic to hear that we were going to be staying in a hotel for the evening. I didn’t think my lower back could take another night of sleeping on the ground. Two in a row is my max.
Why did I sign up for a two month camping tour?
I’m poor.
I can spin a yarn of experience, culture, getting back to basics… ya ya…
I’m poor.
I need to start doing exercise.
I need a travel hula hoop.
Life would be significantly better and I was more flexible… and I had a travel hula hoop.
Is there such a thing?
There should be.
Right outside of very flat Al Ain was Hafeet Mountain, which resembled more of an enormous heap of rocks than a mountain. It stood, triumphant, this craggy formation, in the middle of this barren desert. Marianne chugged her way (with a few minor stops along the way to rest the engine) to a vantage point near the top for a brief viewpoint stop.
It was a panorama like nothing I’d ever seen before. At the base of this colossal bolder dome, Al Ain spread over a large part of the desert, but at the edge of its city limits, desolate and dry stretched on as far as the naked eye could see.
The view didn’t lend itself well to a fabulous photo, as it was quite hazy. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was a result of air pollution or sand. When I consulted my trusted friend, Google, it provided both possibilities, so perhaps I’ll never know.
Our hotel, the Al Ain Mecure Jabel Hafeet, was nestled up on Hafeet Mountain, 3000 feet above sea level.
After two days of sand, dirt, greasy hair, grimy clothes and an altogether unhygienic lifestyle, a shower was not only a luxury, but a necessity.
It was good to see a hotel.
It was even better to see a hotel with not only a bar, but a swim up bar. These guys did ‘dry’ in style.
I was desperate to organize my belongings. I needed some space and time and light and shelf space in order to figure out 1 ~ what I needed for camping, 2 ~ what I needed on hand for appropriate clothing excursions, 3 ~ what I needed for hotels and 4 ~ what could be shoved in the back of the truck and essentially forgotten until the end of January.
I was getting tired of hauling my small, yet burdensome bag up & down and here & there and round & round.
Basically I just needed to separate my tight, scandalous rage from my Harry Potter and Grim Reaper robes.
I was still feeling the criminal effects of financial rape, following the enforced payment of my atrocious Dubai laundry bill. I was determined never to endure a loss like that again… so I loaded up my hotel sink with dirty clothes, hot water and complimentary shampoo… and started scrubbing.
Once my laundry was (somewhat) done and I was (somewhat) organized and (somewhat) packed, I headed downstairs to see if any of the fun ones were loitering around the lobby. Even though it’s only been a few days, I’ve already sussed who is and isn’t up for a few drinks and a bit of fun.
It didn’t take me long before I found Judy, lounging by the pool, seeking a partner in crime for happy hour in the lounge bar.
I could easily fill that position.
The hotel was offering ‘Happy Hour’ in Lawrence’s Bar. “Lawrence of Arabia?”
Perhaps.
Happy Hour was even happier than I’d imagined, as they were offering a deal on ‘a cheese & crackers platter and a bottle of grapes.’
Without hesitation, I put my order in… hesitating only ever so slightly that I should have ensured it meant I’d be receiving a bottle of wine and not literally… a bottle of grapes.
That would’ve been awkward.
And expensive.
Sometimes you just have to check. On more than one occasion, I have been thoroughly burned with assumptions.
It’s true… blah blah blah… I should be embracing a dry culture while in the Middle East, but perhaps I should just embrace that whist camping. The luxury of a hotel and running water and a soft bed surely deserves a glass of wine.
Or two.
Or three.
Maybe I’ve got it all mixed up and it should be the other way around. Perhaps we should embrace a dry culture while being at the hotel… and then absolutely overindulge in the desert? I can’t speak for everyone else, but a few glasses of grapes would most certainly help me sleep through the night.
Such dilemmas I’m met with.
In the middle of our culinary and cocktail celebration… who walked in?
Karen.
I was shocked. For the past couple of days, she’d done absolutely anything and everything she could to deliberately avoid all of us.
She ordered herself a beer from the bar, came over to where we were seated… and sat right down with Judy, Denise and I.
Eeek…
At first it was awkward for Denise & I. Here we were, sitting with this bitter woman who had done nothing but exude her disdain for the two of us.
Or… should I say, that’s how it felt.
The wine, like always, worked its liquid courage magic… and it wasn’t long before Denise figured it was high time to have a steer word with Karen about her behaviour.
Oooooohhh… drama drama drama.
Judy and I just sat there, like bumps on a log… speechless… unaware of how to look or how to react… not knowing where to cast our eyes and definitely not knowing what to say.
Good on Denise though. She called Karen out on everything; how unwelcoming she’d been, her poor attitude, her miserable and bitter manner of conducting her… and then she dropped the big bombshell…
The incident at the first camp ~ “This meal is going in the bin!”
All eyes turned to me… and all of a sudden… I was involved.
Double eeek…
I agreed with everything Denise had said… and I told her how insulted I’d been at our very first camp dinner. She took it all fairly well, though she did occasionally become quite defensive, trying to squeeze in pathetic explanations for her dreadful behaviour. Many times she said she was “sorry we felt that way,” but she never came right out with a true apology or offering of remorse.
It went round robin for a long time, but as others started to drift in, we chose to forgive, forget and move forward in a more positive manner. Unfortunately, the more beer Karen consumed, the more she wanted to discuss the “meal in the bin.”
I just didn’t care anymore… it was becoming incessant and irritating. I finally had to say, “It’s over, Karen. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. We’re moving on” and put an end to the monotonous strain of the conversation.
The vibe wasn’t stressful or awkward for too long, as more people joined us, completely ignorant of what had just happened.
I think everyone was feeling the celebratory vibe of having 1~ survived our first two nights of bush camping and 2~ being at a lovely hotel…
The vino was pouring and more cheese & crackers platters started showing up as well. This was a much appreciated alternative to the pizzas, burgers and deep fried assortments we’d all been recently feasting on.
The bar was supposed to be open until 2am, but around 11pm, the staff started serious making moves to get us out. Me, ever the hostess, decided it would be a brilliant idea to invite everyone back to the room Denise & I were sharing. By this time, all the responsible people had retired for the night, so all that remained was us hooligans. This included Denise, Judy, Karen and three German fellows we’d met, that were travelling on another tour group.
Why I decided to host a mix & mingler when all my shampoo-scrubbed personals were hanging off the balcony is beyond me… but alcohol works in mysterious ways.
One of the Germans was intoxicatedly fixated on Denise, and although he was adamant about spending the night in our room… I was adamant that the two of them could find alternative accommodation.
Denise kept telling everyone “The party’s over, time to go,” and I finally had to let her know “it’s actually you two who are leaving” and the rest of us remained to polish off the wine.
Karen passed out cold on the floor between our two beds.
Ugh.
Why us???
When I woke up in the morning, Denise was back in her bed and Karen was gone… but there was a big wet puddle where she’d been lying.
A round wet spot.
You couldn’t really see it for the pattern of the carpet, but we both stepped in it.
She’d peed on our floor…
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