Our first couple of nights were going to be bush camping and I was a little worried about that. I’m not a camper… nor do I think I ever will be. My greatest fear though… what if I wasn’t able to figure out how to put up my tent??
For those of you who aren’t sure what bush camping is… it’s pretty much pull-off-the-road-into-the-middle-of-nowhere camping.
Think primitive…
And then think more primitive.
And then times that by 100.
I was beginning to regret this.
I hate camping…
Oh well.
Wine always takes the edge off, right?
So… I got wine.
Not just me. Don’t be silly.
Most of us got wine.
It was actually a race to get to the bottle shop, as it closed at 10pm. Our Egyptian dinner ran late and at 9:40, I looked at my phone and shit… the race was on! Go time!
Two days of bush camping definitely called for wine…. a lot of it.
After successfully loading up, we were all back to the hotel, and Denise, Judy and I sat in the lobby and polished off a couple of bottles. Judy is an older, wonderful Australia lady who has been on the tour since Istanbul. She’s quite ‘fond of the drink’ and was more than willing to share some secrets and give us a glimpse into everyone’s stories.
Most of it we’d already sussed out on our own, but it was good to have some groundwork to spring from.
So long Abu Dhabi…
The following morning, wheels were rolling bright & early and we were on our way to explore more of the United Arab Emirates.
Our first stop of the day was the Emirates National Car Museum. It wasn’t so much a museum, as it was the Shiekh’s own personal collection of vintage cars.
We’d been told it was an entry fee of 50 dirham, but it ended up being 55.
50 = $19.15 CDN
55 = $21.10 CDN
Not toooo much of a difference, though extortionate for a viewing of a personal car collection in a large warehouse… which is exactly what it was.
As soon as Karen discovered the amended price, she flatly refused to go in and stormed back to wait in the truck.
Her attitude… wow.
Pure misery.
There were others that opted not to go in, but none of them acted in such a childish manner. I get that people are tired… or on a budget, but she’s so damn miserable and bitter.
The car collection was slightly excessive… and I envied those that chose not to pay the entrance fee because the really cool vehicles were outside. These were the ones that didn’t fit in the warehouse, such as the world’s largest truck and a globe car…
Then we stopped at a…
Wait for it…
Wait for it…
A mall!
Always malls.
I shouldn’t complain. Malls are fabulous for air conditioning, modern toilets, supermarkets and food courts.
They certainly love their malls here.
Why go to one store when you can go to the-m-all…!
We were stopping for lunch. I should’ve gone into the supermarket and got something delicious & healthy & cheap… but… I opted for something sickly, expensive & weird.
Blueberry Cheesecake Bubble.
I didn’t know what it was. Yes, we have these bubble drinks at home, but I’ve never tried one before. It looked interesting enough and the girl at the counter told me it was delicious. She even said it was her favourite… though I highly suspect she was lying to make a sale.
I’m fairly gullible.
This bubble concoction wasn’t cheap. It should have been because it was putrid… but it wasn’t. When it arrived… it looked decent enough. There were dark, little round things at the bottom of the cream filled potion… and I naturally assumed they were blueberries, considering it was a blueberry cheesecake drink.
I think anyone would have.
They were not blueberries.
Definitely not blueberries.
I don’t know what they were… but the texture was appalling. They were slimy lumps of brown snot. No matter how hard I tried, every time I took a sip, one of these little snot balls shot up the straw and into my mouth. I kept spitting them out onto my napkin and trying to figure out what they were… but I was at a loss.
I’ve since discovered they are tapioca balls… though I don’t get it.
I’m just wasting money here.
Perhaps it’s a good thing I don’t have any data or wifi so I don’t spend a lot of time scrolling mindlessly… and I can concentrate on my writing.
Try to concentrate on my writing, at least.
I’ve decided it’s probably for the best that i keep quiet about my writing and don’t share my blog with anyone. Not yet, anyway.
Things could get real awkward. Real quick.
I’ve told Denise, but she’s been sworn to secrecy.
This truck story certainly features some intriguing characters. However, if I were to let them all know about my blog, I’d have to significantly temper my honesty, opinions and the truth.
And what fun would that be?
No fun at all.
Our first night of bush camping was outside of Liwa, in the Moreeb sand dunes. They weren’t like any sand dunes I’d seen before. More like miles of soft, cascading waves.
Maybe I’d find that camping was better in the dunes. A lovely, soft sandy bed.
Probably not.
Who am I kidding?
What do I hate more than camping?
Sand.
It took the guides a while to find a proper place to pull over, but they did.
Thin Lizzy kept interrupting to suggest potential stops along the way. Despite Sue and I repeatedly telling her to let the guides handle it, she was undeterred. Each time she pointed out an off-road spot, she would look to us for support, hoping we’d back her up.
We didn’t.
I imagine it would be exasperating to be a tour guide for a mere week or two. I can’t even begin to imagine months on end, 24 hours a day…
Excruciating.
I seem to have become truck IT for a group of people that don’t quite understand smart phones, apps, social media and eSIMs . I’m hardly the person to ask, as I’m no pro. If I have issues, I just keep trying until it works… or I throw my phone against the wall.
Any patience I possess does not transfer well to phone technology.
We finally reached our sand dune hotel… and I set off to do my first tent set up. In Dubai, I had asked the camping store attendant if a 3 year old could put up my tent.
He said yes.
Ok… if a 3 year old can do it, surely I can as well.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Turns out it was quite easy. In fact, I had mine up in no time and was back at the truck to get dinner started.
Rosanna had broken us all into cook & clean crews. I was partnered up with two of the guys. One was Lutz. He’s 84… an elderly gentleman from Germany. He only has one eye, sleeps on the truck a lot and likes to play with his tongue while his mouth is open. The other was Warren. He’s from the UK and in his early 40’s. So far, I don’t know much more about him.
Interestingly, there are two Warrens on the tour. One of them initially suggested we call him Wazza. However, just a day later, the other Warren decided he should be the one to claim the nickname. It led to a lot of back-and-forth over what is, frankly, a rather stupid nickname.
Wazza?
The one who finally settled on Wazza is not the Warren in my cook crew. Unfortunately, I will not be calling him Wazza…. Instead, I call him the Geisha.
But more on him… and that… later.
Our crew was assigned cook crew duty for our first night of camping… and I was the crew leader. It was a bit disappointing, as we had no input on what was being prepared, access to only limited ingredients, and no information about the amenities or what to expect. In essence, we were merely the guinea pigs.
Rosanna told us we’d be making ratatouille.
Ratatouille.
Ya… I’d heard of it… but what the hell was it????
A movie.
Ugh.
Not a good start.
Ratatouille… with me leading the team. God help everyone. Turns out it was only really veggie pasta… but still.
Our crew was only supposed to be the three of us, but along the way, we acquired a fourth.
Meet Brian.
Brian is slightly touched. He’s been on the tour for a few months… and if I had to diagnose, I’d say he is borderline Asperger's.
He likes routine… so he never moves seats in the truck… although we are supposed to, every day. No nesting! He is forever questioning each decision made and gets anxious very easily. He has a tendency to become overwhelmed or frustrated in stressful situations… or should I say, situations he finds stressful. All of that makes for a great passenger.
He’s an avid Trump supporter, Israeli supporter… and worse than all of that… if you can possibly get worse… he’s one of those Americans that thinks he’s from the greatest place on earth. He knows it, he means it and he announces it… everywhere.
I have heard there have been a few interesting border crossings.
He has been telling everyone that he was a police officer in New York City… and bragging about the amount of men he’s had to kill… as odd as that sounds. We all nod and smile at the ridiculous notion of someone such as himself not only being on the force… but in NYC. As if anyone would willingly give Brian a gun.
If you look at his hands, it’s obvious he’s never done a hard days work in his life.
He’s harmless… I think… but possibly could be dangerous if provoked. Perhaps not physically… though I’m sure he could slaughter you with opinions.
He was originally put in another cook crew, but had a slight meltdown because he felt that group didn’t have a strong leader. Rosanna then asked if he could be moved to our crew.
So we got Brian.
Most of the crew jumped in to help cut vegetables… including Karen. Our ratatouille was well on its way. I thought there were way too many vegetables. People just kept chopping and chopping… at one point, I tried to stop the production line, but Rosanna was adamant about us using up all of the vegetables for dinner.
It was a lot.
Even for 23 people.
With limited stove tops… making ratatouille was a bit of a feat. Boiling enough water for pasta to feed 23 people, cooking the abundance of vegetables that had been cut, cooking the meat AND boiling additional water for washing dishes… all at the same time… was tough.
Let’s talk about the meat for a moment…
The stupid meat.
So… I’ve already mentioned don’t really have a strong understanding of exactly what ratatouille is… but… does it have veal???
I didn’t think so.
When Rosanna brought it out, I was baffled. I had absolutely no idea what to do with it. No… I have not spent my entire life as a vegetarian, but I have never ever cooked veal.
Ever.
But… of all the meats, it’s one of the saddest. Doesn’t seem like it belongs in something as joyous as ratatouille.
Warren and I both agreed that we needed to give Brian a job. We were both vegetarians, so we figured he’d be beneficial in the cooking of the veal. When I asked if he’d be interested, he eagerly jumped at the opportunity. I was then met with an onslaught of self-praise about his exceptional skills in cooking meat.
From then on, to me, he became Mr. Meat.
He loved it.
Mr. Meat.
For somebody who considered himself quite the meat chef, it didn’t appear that he was. He followed me around, inundating me with questions.
“How do you want it cooked?”
“Should I put it in a pot?”
“Do you want it in a pan?”
“Should I add salt?”
“Should I add pepper?”
It didn’t matter how many times I told him that he could cook it however he wanted to, the questions did not stop.
It went on… and on… and on… as he followed me around and around the stove top section, demanding my attention.
Then I realized what had to be done. Brian’s condition benefits from clear direction and structure. I turned around and started giving him explicit directions on exactly how I wanted the veal cooked.
I had to make it all up.
Fake it till ya make it… with veal.
I’m pretty sure Brian thrives on confidence and boasts endlessly, but I’ve come to realize he struggles significantly when it comes to accomplishing things independently.
We finally finished.
The meat was pure shit. Overcooked… chewy… horrible.
Everybody shuffled forward to help themselves to the meal. I encouraged heaping portions, as the amount of food we’d made was astronomical.
Right in the middle of the meal, Karen stormed past Rosanna and I… and rudely exclaimed, “This meal is going in the bin.”
With that, she threw the contents of her plate into the garbage… and stormed off, muttering about the meal being too spicy, how she hated the veal and her not liking peppers.
Complaints are on the 4th floor, bitch.
She watched people cutting up peppers. Why not say something?
I’m done trying with her.
I’ve thought of a few nicknames for her for this blog, but I can’t come up with anything better than “Karen.”
I’ll tell ya… she’s not selling herself well… but she’s definitely living up to the reputation of her name.
*apologies to all the wonderful Karens I know.
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