I feel a bit guilty for badmouthing Stormin’ Norm so much. Despite his disturbing knack for being annoyingly zip-zip-zippity and determined to be the first to be everywhere and see everything, he was very helpful when it came to setting up my tent while I was injured.
Everyone was.
Except Karen.
She was horrid.
And the geisha didn’t care either.
But everyone else was fabulous.
Everyone rallied around me when I needed help the most, and I was overwhelmed with gratitude. I couldn’t manage anything on my own. It was impossible.
They bandaged me up, sprayed on who-knows-what, and I did my part by swallowing a small pharmacy’s worth of heavy-duty painkillers.
That first evening, I skipped dinner and went straight to bed/tent. Exhausted from excruciating agony, ineffective medication, and a full day of blubbering, I didn’t have energy for anything else.
Nothing was easy.
Even the simplest parts of the tent were challenging to navigate. Working the zippers, adjusting my sleeping bag and trying to keep my arm elevated were strenuous tasks.
Don’t even get me started on my midnight pee ordeal.
The next morning, I packed up slowly, taking one item at a time to the truck. It was tough, but I was determined to do what I could without completely relying on others. I didn’t want to be a burden right off the bat.
I felt a little better… definitely not 100%… but at least I could wiggle my fingers without dissolving into floods of tears. Making a fist and moving my wrist was still completely out of the question though… and the ferocious wind added to every single challenge I faced.
During one of my trips to the truck, I got distracted… again. Everything seemed to confuse me and pull my attention away, whether it was brushing my teeth or fumbling with my gear. In the midst of it all, I lost track of what was going on with my tent.
It wasn’t until later that I noticed it was… gone.
I scanned the area where it had been pitched, and sure enough, someone had been kind enough to take it down for me.
The entire group was enjoying breakfast, so I made a heartfelt announcement: “Whoever took my tent down, thank you so, so much!”
It was such a thoughtful gesture, especially since dismantling it myself would’ve been nearly impossible. No one stepped forward to claim credit for the generous act.
I walked over to where my tent had been, as I still had to retrieve one of my bags and a chair I’d been using.
My tent hadn’t been put away by anyone. It had BLOWN away!!!!
I had been so distracted by other things and getting my gear back to the truck that I’d completely disregarded the powerful wind.
OMG… seriously…
There I was, chasing this flimsy balloon of cheap nylon across the beach, struggling to keep my wrist straight and elevated. Thankfully, Sue was right behind me and jumped in to help wrestle it down and cram it into the poorly made tent bag.
My public announcement seemed so foolish now. If I’d already taken my bag and chair, I would’ve left my tent behind, convinced someone had packed it up for me.
Idiot.
I was relieved to finally climb back into the truck. I found a seat near the back at one of the table setups, where I could rest my arm rather than endure the strain of trying to hold it steady in mid-air for the entire journey.
It was our turn again for cook crew and I was dreading it. Not necessarily because I didn’t want to do it, but more because I didn’t think I would be able to do it.
I had resigned myself to take on nothing more than a supervisory role with the meal. Cutting vegetables was out of the question… as was setting up camp or lifting anything heavy.
I wasn’t just struggling.
I was useless.
Everything was undeniably laborious - opening cans, stirring a pot, washing a dish…
Absolutely useless.
We had chosen to have a Mexican night and we were making tacos. Everyone loves a little Mexican, right? The concept was simple and straightforward… with minimal cooking required. That appealed to all of us.
A few days earlier, Warren, Mr. Meat and I had gone on a cook crew shopping excursion to gather all the necessary supplies for our taco feast. It turned out to be quite the trip. I tried my best to assign specific items for Mr. Meat to find… but navigating the store proved challenging for him. He struggled to locate products, choose between options and decide on quantities… so unfortunately every purchase ended up being a collaborative effort, which turned a quick jaunt into a very lengthy shop.
Mr. Meat insisted on having hot salsa… even though it far exceeded the price of the regular salsa. He was tasked with finding taco mix but didn’t get further than the first aisle before giving up. I had to then go in search of it… and found it in the very next aisle… in spices. The entire shop was like that. We had to seek out everything Brian couldn’t locate on his own… which was everything. He definitely wasn’t a detective in the police force.
It’s tough judging how much food 23 people will require, but I think we nailed it.
The tacos were a big hit.
I dubbed it “Mexic-O-man” night… because it was truly a blend of the two cuisines. Get it? Mexico + Oman. My brilliant astounds me.
There were jalapeños… but instead of sour cream and shredded cheese, we used labnah and spiced & diced feta. We also couldn’t get our hands on taco shells… so we settled for Omani pita. Refried beans were too expensive and there were limited tins of it, so instead we bought six cans of spiced, smashed fava beans.
We put Mr. Meat in charge of the ground beef… which probably got a wee bit too much garlic than rightly should have been in a Mexican concoction, but we made it work… somehow.
Overall though… it was edible… and that’s all we could ask for.
In the morning, we kept the “Mexic-O-man” theme. Mr. Meat cooked up scrambled eggs and… without consulting any of us… threw in the remaining package of fajita mix. Now we had a lot of brown scrambled eggs… and brown scrambled eggs don’t necessarily appeal to the masses, regardless of how delicious or Mexican they taste.
I quickly added some tomatoes and a bit of salsa in an attempt to mask the colour and make the eggs look more appealing.
It worked.
Breakfast was a hit… and we pretty much used up everything we’d bought. There were hardly any left overs and no throw-aways.
But… just as our “Mexic-O-man” breakfast was coming to a close, I noticed Martin hadn’t eaten yet. I walked over to where he was standing.
“Would you like me to make you up a plate of breakfast?”
“No. I don’t want any.”
“Why? Everything is still hot. I’ll make you up a plate. No problem.”
“You put tomatoes in the eggs, so I’m not eating it.”
Oh.
Ok…
My heart sank.
Immediately, I tried to fix the situation. Looking back, I’m not sure why I was being so accommodating. There was an entire buffet of breakfast options without a single tomato in sight. Toast, yogurt, fruit, vegetables, baked beans, cereal, porridge, cheese, pitas… SO much to choose from.
“I’ll make you a plate of plain scrambled eggs!” I offered, trying to smooth things over.
He was storming around, visibly irritated about the tomatoes in the eggs, behaving like a spoiled child. Even Rosanna was attempting to reason with him, urging him to eat something for the strength he’d need for the drive.
But no, I had apparently ruined his entire day by adding tomatoes to the eggs… and nothing could appease him.
Why couldn’t I be on a cooking crew without someone turning the entire ordeal into a complete nightmare? I’d just survived pepper-gate, and now here I was, stuck in the middle of tomato-gate.
Despite his childish behavior and outright rudeness, I felt awful. So… one-handed, I set out to make him a completely new breakfast.
I grilled some pita bread with melted cheese, topped it with scrambled eggs, baked beans, and grilled onions. It was a masterpiece. I packed it neatly into a container with a few apple slices on the side and brought it over to the truck.
As I proudly handed it to him, I apologized once again for the tomato fiasco.
He didn’t even glance at the breakfast plate, let alone accept it graciously.
“I reserve the right to refuse any meal I don’t want,” he said coldly. “And you all need to respect that.”
It was unnecessarily cruel.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, fought back the urge to cry… nodded… and picked up the meal with my functioning hand. Without another word, I removed both it and myself from his presence.
Well… at least I’m saving the tip I might have considered giving him… had he behaved with even a shred of decency.
Get me off this tour...
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