When we arrived in Abha, Rosanne realized she’d somehow lost her keys.
All her keys…
She was convinced she put them on a rock by her tent… so off they went… back to where we’d camped the previous night. Thank goodness we had arrived safely at the Abha hotel by the time she’d come to this conclusion, so the rest of us didn’t have to make the long trek.
Sue, Persnickety and Rebekah were on their way out and off quite early to explore the town… and if you can even believe it, Karen was complaining that Persnickety Marilyn didn’t invite her to tag along with them.
Who… in their right mind… would actually want to join either of them?
I’m actually quite surprised the two of them haven’t come together. They don’t like each other at all. I couldn’t relate to her frustration. No sense being upset that Persnickety Marilyn doesn’t invite you anywhere. That’s actually my life long dream.
Again… practicing kindness and tolerance as we approach a brand new year, I mentioned to Karen that I was going to walk in to town… and she was welcome to join me.
… and then I said the same thing to Mickey.
I don’t actually know why I’m being so nice to Karen. She’s done nothing to deserve it. I just keep thinking “nurse” and “fractured wrist”…
I was in shock the both of them were both willing to leave the hotel at all. A feat in itself, as they rarely do. So… being New Year’s Eve… if there’s a reason to celebrate…
I was eager to do a couple things in town. I needed to find a tailor to hem up one of my “Marilyn-disapproves” dresses. It was my Jane Austen / Elizabeth Bennett, puffed sleeves dress… and I figured it was a bit too long for my liking. As luck would have it, I found a tailor on our walk into the centre of town.
I actually found a few tailors, but the first couple of places I walked into made me feel completely unwelcome. The men inside stared at me and my dress with such blatant disregard that it became awkward just standing there. Sensing much tension, I quickly removed myself.
Saudi is very much a male-dominated world… and there are certain spaces where women aren’t welcome. Perhaps I had wandered into a “men-only” tailor. I’m not sure. What I do know is that no one in those shops acknowledged my presence, let alone offered to help.
Thankfully, I finally found someone willing to assist. They took my dress without hesitation and assured me it would be ready by 4 p.m.
Phewf…
A lot of the walk into Abha was what we were all pretty much used to… and expecting…
Closed.
Decrepit.
Derelict.
Oh well…
I had specific destinations marked out on my map… places of interest, worth the visit… so that’s where we were all headed.
~ The Art Street.
~ The Tuesday Market Place.
~ Al Muftaha Art Village.
~ Shamsan Castle.
Besides all the usual tourist destinations and in addition to finding a tailor, I was also desperate for a post office. It was crazy because as soon as I mentioned needing the postal office… there it was… like magic. Right in front of me! It was my lucky day. I’d been carrying two postcards around for weeks, constantly forgetting to mail them. To be fair, they had Omani stamps on them… but I figured if I could just dump them into a postbox here, the postal workers might not notice the stamps were from a different country.
I was feeling optimistic…
I walked right in the front door and went straight up to the man being the counter. With my biggest and friendliest smile, I handed him the two postcards. He looked at me, ever so slightly confused.
Hmmmm… ok…
My next move was a series of exaggerated gestures to convey “sending a postcard.”
Again, he looked at the cards… and at me… with the most bewildered expression, staring back at the postcards as though I’d just handed him alien artifacts.
It quickly became clear that he had no idea what to do with them… possibly because he had never seen a postcard in his entire life? Though… I’m having difficulty believing that considering he works in a POST OFFICE.
Absurd.
After a lot of back-and-forth of extravagant gestures, Google translated explanations, broken English and astonished facial expressions… his confusion only deepened. Finally, exasperated… and fully out of patience… I threw my hands in the air, reclaimed my postcards… and left.
At this point now, I’ve come to terms with the fact that these postcards will never find their way into a mailbox. It’s clear I’ll have to hand-deliver them once I’m back home. Apparently, no one around here knows what a postcard is, let alone how to send one.
Warren suggested that Saudis might not understand postcards because the country only opened to tourism in 2019.
Seriously???? Come on.
You can buy postcards here. People send and receive them here. And the guy I handed them to works in a POST OFFICE! How is this a mystery? Postcards were invented in 1869… and Saudi was only closed to tourism from the mid-70’s…
I have to let it go.
Calm…
Our next stop was Souq Al Thulatha, the Tuesday Market Place… and honestly, it turned out to be one of the highlights of my time in Saudi Arabia. It was incredible… filled with honey, date and coffee traders and vendors selling fruits, vegetables, herbs, textiles, crafted clay pots and more…
This market had absolutely everything that has an enchanting way of luring me in.
The temptation of the market force was strong… and I ended up spending a little bit of money… picking up a couple of kaftans, a scarf and some beautifully woven bowls.
… and honey.
I bought lots of honey.
Even Mickey was buying things… as she normally doesn’t.
The market was abuzz with cheerful energy. Everyone was warm and friendly, creating an atmosphere that immediately lifted our spirits. Positive vibes were everywhere… and I couldn’t help but feel happy.
We all were.
While exploring, I learned the Arabic word for cheese… “jibneh”… which is alarmingly similar to “chicken,” when said quickly.
I was trying to buy vegetarian samosas and I kept trying to explain that I don’t eat meat. The ladies were pointing at the cheese samosas and saying “jibneh”… what???… which I continuously misunderstood as “chicken”… and the entire ordeal ended up being quite comical… and chaotic.
It went around and around and around… but the samosas were worth the effort.
While I was back & forthing with the jibneh samosas, one young guy was loitering around, taking random photos of the vendors in the market. I saw that I was in one of his frames and immediately started smiling and waving at him. He approached me to inquire as to whether or not I would be willing to be in a short video.
Of course!
A group of ladies, in full burqas, surrounded me, while one of them placed a beautiful herb wreath/crown on my head. They reenacted the scene a few times while the young guy snapped photos and did some videoing. When they were all done, they gifted me the herb crown, which was very sweet and entirely unexpected. It smelled soooo lovely and was crafted beautiful… but walking around with a foliage wreath on my head for the rest of the day wasn’t quite as glamorous as it sounds.
Still… I managed to get it home in one piece.
Our next destination was the highly acclaimed Abha Art Street. I’d seen so many photos online… and it looked spectacular… full of intriguing art installations and colourful umbrellas stretching across the road. It seemed like a truly magical spot.
I couldn’t wait…
When we arrived, I kept thinking, “This can’t be it…”Sadly, it was.
The vibrant displays I’d anticipated were not there. Instead… all we found were a few Saudi flags draped over the road… which did nothing to quash our disappointment. Trying to make the best of it, we ducked into a nearby coffee shop to load up on caffeine. While we were there, we got talking to a German girl, Cordula, who was solo traveling through Saudi for three weeks. She shared some great tips and recommendations, and by the end of the conversation, we invited her to join us for New Year’s Eve dinner that night.
Mickey decided it would be a good idea to host a New Year’s Eve dinner in their unit, as they had an outdoor barbecue. It was a fabulous idea… but… considering that I’ve recently become a vegetarian… AND am trying my hand at intermittent fasting… my financial contribution to dinner ended up being much more than I’d bargained for.
Most of it was meat.
When I told Sue we’d invited a guest, she did not seem at all impressed that we were bringing an outsider in. In fact, she seemed quite put out. Her facial expressions give everything away… just like mine do… though at least we gave her something to run off and complain to Persnickety Marilyn about.
Ammunition.
They both share that in common. Complaining.
Before dinner, Sue, Warren and I visited the Abha Fatima Museum. As per the norm, Sue managed to turn a perfectly nice outing into a stressful ordeal. She completely lost it when trying to book an Uber. She tries to act calm and collected while she’s attempting to navigate the app… but can’t ever figure out where the pickup point is and ends up just flailing about, pressing random buttons and getting more and more abrupt with us. It’s an absolute nightmare.
Honestly… I don’t know how I’m going to survive the next few weeks with her. She’s even decided to stay with me in Amman after the tour ends. In the SAME room. I’m there from the 19th-23rd… and she’s there until the 22nd. The thought of enduring her chaos, dramatic outbursts, constant need for attention, continual complaining and incessant shit stirring makes me want to scream.
Already…
We aren’t even there yet.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I just can’t.
The Fatima Museum was fascinating… showcasing traditional jewelry, clothing and other artifacts from the past. But… apart from the women’s outfits and accessories… I loved the art.
“The museum is renowned for its extensive collection of Al-Qatt Al-Asiri art, a traditional form of interior wall decoration characterized by vibrant geometric patterns. This art form, historically practiced by women in the region, has been recognized by UNESCO as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity.”
It was beautiful, colourful and entirely captivating… like quilting meets a Bay blanket. I couldn’t get enough of the intricate designs.
When I got back to the hotel, I decided I needed to lie down for a bit, before the festivities… but no sooner had my head hit the pillow when… knock knock knock knock… there was my favourite Persnickety at the door. She was being very shrewd… and cryptic… refusing to step over the threshold, yet demanding to know how I wanted the carrots cooked.
The bloody carrots???
Apparently, my casual suggestion of roasting carrots with honey on the barbecue had been taken as mandate.
Next thing I knew, instead of enjoying a small sleep, I was downstairs cutting up carrots and drizzling them with the honey I’d bought at the market. Persnickety, meanwhile, was flitting around acting like she’d been tasked to cook for royalty… rummaging through everything, fretting, micromanaging and annoying me to no end with her whiny commentary.
Mickey came in with a bag of decorations, dumped them on the floor and went outside to light the barbecue. This threw Persnickety into a complete upheaval, making an enormous fuss over the thought of having to not only prepare the food, but also decorate the patio.
She wouldn’t stop.
She wouldn’t let it go.
Her complaining rambled on and on, as if she’d been saddled with all the monumental tasks.
She just can’t stop framing herself as the perpetual victim in every single scenario. I couldn’t believe she was twisting this positive New Year’s Eve group dinner situation into something that reflected poorly on her. Ahhh… the poor lady suffering and having to “maybe” hang a few balloons and a few strings of fairy lights… in addition to making a salad.
… and NO ONE else was helping.
Not Vic making a potato salad from scratch.
Not me doing the carrots.
Not Mickey sorting all the meat on the barbecue, after having bought everything.
Not Brian bringing bowls of snacks.
Persnickety was the victim.
I fully ignored her.,, bit my tongue… finished cutting the carrots… grabbed the decorations bag and stepped outside. Mickey and I had every balloon and every strand of fairy lights up within 10 minutes.
No one suffered.
No one died.
I brought my herb crown wreath out for New Year’s, and as soon as Tania walked in, I popped it on her head for the night.
The evening was… at best… meh. Most of the crew showed up… apart from the Germans and the Geisha, of course. I was waiting to see if he would show up… although it was ludicrous thinking that he’d participate in something so “extravagant” and “unnecessarily indulgent.”
Right?
But… I figured the food might tempt him. I’m sure it did… but he had to fight the urge in order to save face.
It wasn’t the most memorable New Year’s Eve ever, but I shouldn’t complain. I was in Saudi Arabia, after all. Everyone ate… I packed some leftovers for later… and we all sat around chatting and listening to music. Tania, Warren and I did the dishes… with no help at all from Persnickety. I was tempted to make a comment about “how we had to do everything”… but I decided against it.
I half-watched a silly game people were playing, but when my eyes began to shut… I headed up to bed. I didn’t even make it to midnight. I was asleep within two minutes of my head hitting the pillow.
My New Year’s resolution?
I have two.
Never join such a long group tour again.
Somehow survive the next three weeks without having to speak to, listen to or look at Persnickety Marilyn.
I miss Judy.
On a side note, Rosanna found her keys. They weren’t at the camping spot as she’d figured they were. They were wrapped up in her sleeping bag.
Shit….
She made the entire trip back to our camp for nothing. Martin didn’t seem too impressed… and as a result, they both decided to skip our New Year’s celebration dinner.
Mickey brushed it off by saying they probably needed a break from all of “us.” I found that amusing, as they don’t interact with the group all that much anyway. They sit at the front of the bus during drive days and do their own thing when we get to town. This minimal interaction makes it hard to imagine they’d need a “break” from “us.”
But… what do I know?
You know who needs a break?
Me.
… but I think everyone knows that…
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