The Germans have decide to leave us. Yellow and Thin Lizzy, that is. From what I’ve heard, he’s sick and an overland camping trip isn’t doing him any favours. Odd that someone would put themselves through a vigorous camping expedition at that age… and knowing health wasn’t on your side. He’s actually not doing himself any favours at all. He avoids helping at all costs and spends the majority of his time sitting away from the crowd and smoking…
I figured he was yellow because of the smoking. Turns out it’s his kidney. Jaundice.
I thought he’d been disposing of his cigarettes in the sand and/or rock, but we had a small fire in the truck communal garbage the other morning… so he must be throwing his butts in there.
Thin Lizzy is lovely, albeit slightly peculiar… she’s forever taking photos through the window of the moving truck. She must have taken a million. I would not want to be invited to her vacation slide show event. They are with us until Doha and then flying back to Germany.
Group dynamics are odd. I’ve mentioned what a bizarre crew we have and it’s good that I can blog for fear I might mentally implode if I didn’t. I have had so many “get me out of here” moments…
If I couldn’t express myself clearly, things would quickly spiral out of control… and become costly. One of my biggest fears is that someone might discover my blog, putting an end to my freedom of speech. And this tour.
Brian (not Mr. Meat) … I need a nickname for him. For now, he can be Kind Brian. It’s tough when there are people with the same name. He had the right idea about avoiding group travel. But unfortunately, like the rest of us, he’s stuck with us all now.
I still haven’t properly explained everyone on the truck…
So far, we’ve met New York Brian, a special needs Trump and Israeli supporter who claims to have been a police officer, though it’s hard to imagine anyone trusting him with a gun. He’s a bit ‘touched’ and has an obsession with counting countries, constantly comparing his tally to everyone else’s. He seems to have a particular competitive fixation on the other American Kind Brian, perhaps because they share the same name or nationality. The other day, Kind Brian made a lighthearted joke about him flexing for the camera, and New York Brian completely lost it. He started rattling off random bench press stats and boasting about how many squats he can do. It was entertaining, especially since we’ve all seen him struggle to carry his own pack.
We’ve met Mickey, the butch ‘boss ‘who’s infatuated with the guides. The other day, she ate a pasta dish and smoked a cigar at the same time. It was disgusting to watch, but that’s exactly the attention she craves.
We’ve met Warren… Wazza, the gay chef and the geisha tea pot. We’ve met Lutz, the 84 year old one-eyed man who plays with his tongue a lot. We’ve met Stormin’ Norman, the pushy guy who always has to be first off the bus and of course, we’ve met the true Karen, Yellow and Thin Lizzy.
I’ve also mentioned Sue ~ the birder with “my man,” Marilyn ~ the high maintenance chatterbox traveller and Rebecca ~ the occasional vegetarian.
I’ve touched on Martin and Rosanna, the guides… and Marianne, our truck. Rosanna is still lovely… Martin still rarely has anything to do with us.
Then there is;
Jeff & Caroline.
They are an older, British couple who have spent their entire lives exploring the globe. I am fascinated with their travel stories and Jeff is a fantastic storyteller. They met in 1976, whilst traveling to India with a crazy man and his family. Jeff plays the guitar and will often entertain us after dinner with a song he’s written.
Vic and Tania.
Vic and Tania are lovely in their own ways too, though Tanya is a stereotypical blunt Australian. She often tries to make jokes, but they tend to come off as rude, snide remarks. Vic is another avid birder, much to Sue’s delight. Ya… we have two birders on board. Fun.. Tania told Kind Brian to keep his distance and never touch her because she considers him unhygienic. Why? Because he often is bare foot.
Harald.
Harald is another German. I thought his name was “Horse” for the longest time and I still have to catch myself sometimes to get his name right. He’s very tall with gargantuan lips, which he keeps coated with Vaseline or lip balm, often spreading it beyond his lips and onto his face. He has a habit of talking to himself and making odd facial expressions, pushing his already large lips out even further. On top of that, he shaves both his chest and his back. He doesn’t mingle much with any of us and prefers to remain with Lutz - the 84 year old man with one eye who plays with his tongue a lot.
Lutz is on our cook crew but is not much help at all. He has not once shown up to help with clean duty. Oh well. He’s 84… we can just let him play with his tongue.
Graham.
Graham is a Welsh gentleman. He’s a retired farmer who decided to see the world in his old age. If I had to guess, I would put Graham around the same age as Lutz. In his 80’s.
Warren.
This is British Warren… not to be confused with American Warren… aka Geisha / Gay Chef / Teapot / Wazza… Warren is lovely but alarmingly thin and startling white. He needs a tan… and a burger… and some deodorant.
Mostly he needs deodorant.
Actually… mostly WE need Warren to wear deodorant.
It’s bad.
What’s the quote about common sense & deodorant?
“Common sense is like deodorant. Those who need it the most never use it.”
I asked Rosanna to write a pleasant reminder up on the board, but she only just laughed.
So ya… I’m not lying when I say it’s quite the crew.
Picture this: you’re rolling down a highway somewhere in the Middle East in a truck reeking of BO. Mr. Meat is counting countries and bragging made up bench press stats, the geisha is being smug, people are hogging seats or overusing their overhead luggage allowance, much to Karen’s annoyance, Lutz is playing with his tongue, Harald is slathering Vaseline to his face, Mickey is barking orders and acting like she’s running the show, Thin Lizzy is snapping photos out the window, Marilyn is telling another boring story, the birders are birding… and Stormin’ is raring to be the first out of the truck…
As am I.
I try to sit back and watch the world go by. Occasionally I’ll add in some of my wit, but I fear my humour is lost on this crowd and most of the time I end up having to explain myself…
On this particular day, I should’ve stayed in the truck and literallywatched the world go by instead of venturing out onto unstable ground.
Our first stop was the waterfalls at Wadi Darbat, a popular destination for Omanis during the monsoon season. It seems the best time to vacation here is when it rains, as the heat becomes unbearable otherwise. That’s when the waterfalls are at their most spectacular. This time, however, the place was completely deserted. We had it all to ourselves. The waterfalls were lush, fresh and stunningly beautiful. As we wandered around over rocks, grassy mounds, streams and unstable ground, I specifically remember saying, “These shoes are going to be the death of me.”
I was wearing my Birkenstocks… and yes, they’re fabulous shoes… but I’m a clown. Someone as clumsy as me has a tenancy to fall on my face more frequently than most others. Sandals only increase the odds. I knew it was coming. It was only a matter of when???
Along the road, there were an abundance of camels and cattle littered along the side of the highway. Thin Lizzy must have taken 700 photos.
You never think you’ll grow indifferent to camels, but eventually, they tend to become as unremarkable as grazing cows.
Everything seemed fine until we stopped at a stunning viewpoint—and that’s when it all went sideways.
I was doing the usual touristy thing… snapping pictures and admiring the scenery. As I turned to make my way from the vantage point back to the truck, I tripped on a rock and went flying forward… and down.
I was completely humiliated. I tried to brush it off, quickly rolling over and attempting to jump to my feet, but the pain in my knees stopped me. I’d landed hard on the rocks… both knees smashed down… and my hands had shot out in a feeble attempt to catch myself.
They didn’t.
Instead, I stayed there, sitting awkwardly, unconvincingly smiling and assuring everyone that I’d just take a quick moment to cry and then I’d be fine. It was a joke, trying to make light of the situation, but it didn’t help. The pain was overwhelming. My knees were completely scraped up, raw and stinging.
Eventually, I let a couple of people help me to my feet, and limped back to the truck with as much dignity as I could muster. My poor, battered knees became my entire focus. Back in the truck, I dug out some baby wipes from my purse and tried to clean myself up to the best of my ability.
I reached for a small bottle of water, twisted the cap… and a sharp, searing pain shot through my right hand and wrist.
Broken? Fractured?
My knees were instantly forgotten. Something was wrong, very wrong. My right hand and wrist didn’t work anymore.
As the day went on, things rapidly got worse. The swelling and pain in my wrist grew and my tolerance for the pain shrank. Within a couple of hours, I was in tears. The shooting pain and deep, throbbing ache shooting up my arm was unbearable. I couldn’t do anything… but cry.
Sue was amazing… truly amazing. She had the misfortune of sitting next to me, but she stepped up and helped me more than I could have hoped for.
Together with Mickey and Judy, they iced my wrist, wrapped it, and even rigged up a makeshift sling. But the pain was so intense that I couldn’t keep my arm in one position for long. The endless bouncing and jerking of the truck over the rough terrain didn’t exactly help either.
Sue, true to form, during the height of my discomfort and agony, had to point that her hands and wrists were far more graceful than mine.
Fantastic.
Just what I needed, a reminder of my monstrosity.
Thanks.
I overdosed on painkillers and spent the rest of the afternoon crying. Neither the pills nor the tears made much of a difference. The pain was relentless.
I tried to keep my misery to myself. I didn’t want to be the one to ruin the trip for everyone else, imagining detours to hospitals and a ripple of annoyance spreading through the group. The last thing I wanted was to be that person, the one who derailed everything. So, I sat there, trying to hold it together, as the pain gnawed away at me.
I was certain it was broken… or fractured… or maybe both. Honestly, I didn’t even know the difference between the two, so it might as well have been both. What I did know was that it was bad. I couldn’t move my fingers at all. I couldn’t make a fist. I couldn’t straighten my wrist.
It was an absolutely miserable day. Nightmare. The pain was unbearable, and I couldn’t do a single thing to make it better. I had to depend on the kindness of everyone around me just to get through the simplest tasks.
But here’s the kicker.
There was a nurse on board. That’s right—a fully qualified, registered nurse sitting right there on the truck. And what did she do?
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
She sat directly behind me, watching the whole ordeal unfold. She watched others scramble to help me. She watched me wince, struggle, and cry. She watched one of her fellow passengers suffer… and still… she did nothing.
Guess who?
Bloody Karen.
… because she doesn’t really “feel” like being a nurse anymore…
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