It was Bahrain National Day on the actual day that we’d arrived in Bahrain. So that proved to be both a treat and a bit of a nightmare. A bunch of the group had gone off to be apart of the celebrations, but I just wasn’t interested. The last thing I wanted to do was cram into a taxi with all involved and journey an additional hour to watch fireworks. I had a much better idea to suit my frame of mind…
The bar.
In my deference, Bahrain was our last call for alcohol before hitting dry Qatar and Saudi.

Our hotel had a lovely bar on the 28th floor, with a stunning view. As lovely as the lights of the city were… the view and everything that accompanied the view… did not do wonders for my head. Although I missed the celebratory fireworks, I was wide awake for the all-nighter festivities that shook the streets of Bahrain for three nights. Perhaps more… I don’t know. Three torturous nights of hoopla and hollering, loud music, burn outs, horns, tires screeching… was enough for me to suffer though.
My lazy day in bed was a bittersweet blend of semi-fabulous and mildly regrettable. I’d managed to spend most of the day horizontal, but the comfort and bliss was shattered when a text came in… it was time to head out for “cook crew” shopping.
Soon.
It was our responsibility to stock up on necessary supplies before heading back into the Saudi Arabian desert. Yes… we did have a couple days to get the shopping done, but Warren had plans for the following day. It wouldn’t have been very nice of me to have prevented him his allotted sightseeing time because of a hangover. Shopping was the absolute last thing I wanted to do… but I reluctantly agreed.
I couldn’t let the cook crew down. What kind of a rubbish leader would I be?
We started at one supermarket, which was very close to our hotel. I was thrilled we didn’t have to go too far. In & out… and back to bed!
Right?
Not really. It was too good to be true. It ended up being too small… and far too expensive for our needs, our wants and our very limited budget.

We jumped into an Uber and off we went to the nearest LuLu’s. The thought of heading to my new favourite supermarket lifted my spirits… somewhat. Only somewhat though. LuLu’s seems to have an inexplicable hold on all of us now, and we can’t help but adore it. Honestly, we’re like Pavlov’s dogs… just the sight of it is enough to make us salivate.
From the moment our shopping excursion began, Mr. Meat was at his worst. I know I’ve described Mr. Meat marginally… but there’s just so much more to try to say. He’s a very complex… yet simple character. Once he gets an idea in his head, he has a habit of becoming overly demanding about how things should be done and how the money should be spent… all while contributing little (or nothing) to the actual effort or solution. He sets his mind on something, declaring himself the expert in almost everything and then refuses to back down when it comes to necessities or quantities…
It’s easy enough to assign him a certain job, while in the supermarket, to temporarily get him out of your hair… but the likelihood of him actually being able to complete the task on his own is slim to none. He’s picky, impractical and endlessly frustrating, with no grasp of budgeting or numbers.
During the shop, he made a big stink about us purchasing tomatoes. “I insist on getting tomatoes. I will not back down on that. We MUST have tomatoes. We MUST HAVE THEM. I won’t leave here without them.”
Now… this is merely an example of his ridiculous rants… because we were making burgers for the meal, so OF COURSE we were getting tomatoes. His adamant verbalization is almost a way of feeling like he’s contributed to the shop. I think that, in his brain, he’s now claimed bragging rights for the tomatoes being purchased… like he now has the power to announce that had it not been for him, Warren and I would have opted against the crew having tomatoes on their burgers.

It’s a convoluted reality.
It’s silly. Yes. There was a similar happening with potatoes, once we’d decided to do mashed as a side. Then it was the coleslaw… but I managed to shut that one down immediately… for numerous reasons including price, ingredients needed, amount of work and the fact I don’t like particularly like it.
What’s the point of keeping the meal simple only then to boost the work load?
Mr. Meat has this way of obsessing over certain things without giving any thought to quantity or cost. Last time, we went over budget because he absolutely had to have honey barbecue sauce for the truck.
When I got back to the hotel room, I made the mistake of venting to Marilyn about how aggravating it had been shopping with Mr. Meat. I divulged the story of the tomatoes to her. I should’ve known better. I really should have.
Big mistake.
It was a pretty ludicrous move for me to align myself with someone who’d been blathering “I have feelings too” fabrications about ME only hours ago.
The problem with telling tales to Marilyn is that she latches onto every strand of the story… and won’t let it go. Every single time Mr. Meat was mentioned after that, she would circle back to my tomato complaint… dragging it out to the point of absurdity. Her busybody prattle became more annoying than the actual shopping trip had been.
It’s exhausting.
I shouldn’t be sharing anything with her. Not even a room…
After an ‘almost’ full day in bed, an aggravating Lu Lu’s excursion and a negative, overbearing conversation with Marilyn, I decided I needed sustenance and liquid… lots of liquid. Back up to the 28th floor I headed, but this time… more for the bottled water and the stunning views of the city and much, much less for the happy hour and the ladies night. I figured the 28th floor might just provide the peace and quiet I was craving. I ordered a large water and some cheese sticks. I was confident this deep fried concoction would do the trick and turn me around for the better.
I hadn’t even been seated for five minutes, when Stormin’ Norm walked in. He grabbed a pint of beer and joined me at my lounge table. At first, I didn’t mind. Honestly. What I really wanted was pure silence, but in the act of practicing kindness and tolerance, I figured that a little company wouldn’t hurt.
Instantaneously, I regretted my decision. Silence isn’t exactly something Norman is capable of. Not that evening anyway. He sat down and started talking… and did not stop. That alone would’ve been annoying enough… but… all of a sudden he had a severe stutter I’d never noticed before.
Truth be told… he’s not my favourite person… although he is growing on me… slightly. During the past few weeks, I’ve spoken to Stormin’ plenty of times and I have NEVER detected one iota of a stutter. Tonight… it was serious, steady and quite substantial. It took him forever to get through one simple sentence… and he seemed to fixate on ONE topic for the entire duration of our irritating conversation.
And what topic would that be?
This is a good one…
His entire stuttering speech revolved around the excessive amount of ‘trinkets’ I purchase from each and every country I travel to.
I can’t make this shit up.
He was fixated on this and nothing I could say would deter his opinion on the subject. In hindsight, it was entirely my fault. I’d made the silly mistake of mentioning I was planning on going to the post office the following day, to send a package home. It was right then that he started badgering me about what I’d bought… and became convinced I was doing nothing more than filling my house with “useless trinkets.”
Ok… yes… I love to shop. I do. But I travel with carry-on luggage, and as much as I’d love to take everything I see home with me, I can’t. Sure… I send things home… but you could hardly describe them as ‘trinkets.’
Stormin’ seemed to have this preconceived notion that I was buying up useless, tacky crap wherever I was going and lining the shelves of my massive home with dust collectors. I tried desperately to tune him out and focus on my cheese sticks. His stuttering lecture was doing nothing more than causing my pounding headache to get increasingly worse. He then launched into a self congratulatory monologue about how he doesn’t purchase useless souvenirs (like I do) because he simply doesn’t have the room. He went on to explain to me how his drawers are all full… and how he couldn’t imagine buying things in every country… like I do. He finished up by stating that, “he just doesn’t know how I do it.”
It was ridiculous… and infuriating, but I hardly had the energy or inclination to argue. The stuttering and stammering… and the absurd amount of time it took him to cast all these accusations, made it all so much more preposterous.
Poor me.
My poor head.
I came alarmingly close to just picking up my plate of food and escaping to my room… but for some reason, I forced myself to sit there and endure the agony.
Stormin’ is an odd creature.

He’s one of those people who doesn’t “do” technology. It’s a tedious trait because he never quite knows what’s going on. Pair that with always wanting to be first and it’s certainly a recipe for disaster. Rosanna always has to email him our group information because he doesn’t have WhatsApp… or a phone, for that matter. His clunky old laptop looks like it’s about 20 years old and I’ve often heard him say, “No one better ever touch my computer.“
No one would want to.
I was quite fascinated by the sudden stuttering though. Of course, I couldn’t ask him what had brought on this infliction. I just figured that I’d missed it before… and made a mental note to pay more attention in the daylight hours.
While we were sitting there, Geisha sent out a blanket text to the group announcing that he’d purchased five liters of red wine.
FIVE litres of red wine.
Nuts.
He continued on to ask if anyone wanted to join him for a glass.
We’ll… lost me at “join him for a drink.”
Even his initial message sounded pompous, as he described it as a fine South African vintage. Five litres of fine South African vintage. Give me a break…
Mickey was the only one who actually responded, casually mentioning that if there was any wine left the following day, she’d be happy to help drink some of it. Well… I think the Geisha had already over indulged by the time he received her message. He missed the ‘tomorrow’ bit, as he went on to continuously update Mickey on his whereabouts and his schedule for the evening… and his texts just got progressively more and more incomprehensible as time went by.
The next morning, after my tedious conversation with Stormin’, I decided it was time to lighten my load and send a few things home. I didn’t have much, but every bit counts when you’re hauling a burdensome bag around.
Off I went to the Bahrain central post office. When I walked in, the place was eerily empty. I approached one of the men sitting behind the desk.
“Hello!”
The man just blankly stared at me. It was unnerving. Without saying a word, he glanced over to the corner of the empty room and pointed to a ticket dispenser machine, indicating I needed to get myself a number before I could be served.
Oh. Ok.
There wasn’t a single other customer in sight… but I followed his instructions. Obediently, I walked over, pressed the button, took my assigned number… and then took a seat. As soon as my ass hit the plastic, he called out my number. I got up and again, made my way to the front counter.

“Hello,” I said again.
“Hello.”
I placed my bag up on the counter and explained that I needed to send a package to Canada. He took a quick look at my bag and asked me what was inside. I told him. His main concern was that I wasn’t sending any perfume. I was NOT permitted to mail any perfume out of the country. Ok… I took everything out of the bag so that he could have a look. A couple of pillow cases, a caftan, a scarf, a beaded purse… nothing too exciting. I didn’t have any perfume. Zero perfume.
Then he asked me, “Where’s your box?”
Where’s my box???
What kind of ridiculous question was that? I was in a post office. My plan was to buy a box.
Nope.
No boxes.
No boxes at all.
No boxes for sale.
No boxes just lying around.
No boxes.
Nothing.
I was flabbergasted.
I must have said, “Really?” about forty times.

The clerk was stoic and clearly unconcerned with my dilemma. He gestured for me to remove myself from the post office and find a box elsewhere… and then went back to doing what he’d been doing before I had walked in.
Thanks…
So off I wandered into the souq to try and find a box. It wasn’t easy. Wandering in and out of various stores, trying to explain to everyone that I needed something for free, was not a fabulous experience. It was finally at a perfumery that I found one. The man held up a box he had and I automatically exclaimed that it would be absolutely perfect. It wasn’t. It was far too small for what I needed… but it would have to do.
Ironically it was a perfume box from a perfumery… and I was strictly forbidden from sending perfume in the mail.
Back to the post office I went…
Just as it had been when I had initially gone in, there wasn’t a soul in sight. I made my way to the back ticket dispenser, took my number… and sat back down. The clerk called me up moments later and I proceeded to pack up my small box with as much of my crap as I could. The clerk weighed it… had me write out the to & from form… charged me an arm & a leg… and then waved me away.
“Goodbye.”
Goodbye?
This post office was nuts. There were no people… no boxes for sale… and now, my package was sitting, wide open, on the scale… and he was indicating for my departure.
“Are you going to package it up?”
“Yes,” was his only reply and then he waved me away again.

No matter what I said… or what I did… or how long I stared longingly at my open package, he just kept waving me away.
“Goodbye.”
I left, slowly, with much trepidation. What if he put something in the package? Or worse, took something out? Or what if he just threw it all in the trash?
The possibilities were limitless.
Now the waiting game beings.
Will it ever arrive?
Time will tell.
I’d booked another food tour, determined not to let my Qatar experience dampen my food tour enthusiasm. I’m glad I did because my Bahraini tour was fabulous. As it was only myself and the owner, I was treated to an extended and personalized experience. The guide, Yusuf, led me all through the maze of narrow, winding streets and alleyways of historical Manama Souq… providing a bit of insight into the trade and port history of Bahrain.

He was very entrepreneurial and anxious for his business to branch out into more of the Middle East… and was very curious about all the food tours I’d done around the world. He was disappointed that I didn’t remember the specific names of each of my tours. I could kinda remember the foods… so that must count for something. Maybe I need to pay more attention. Especially if I expect guests to remember my own business.
For three hours, we wandered around trying different delights from Bahrain, India and even Pakistan.
I tried Dango, a simple yet popular Bahraini comfort food dish made by soaking chickpeas for a long time and then cooking them with the spices turmeric, cumin and chili. I had Loomi tea, made from dried limes that are steeped in hot water to create a very bitter and tangy tea. It was like sucking on a lime.
I also tried Bahrain’s famous dessert, Halwa Bahraini. This dessert dates back about 175 years and is a traditional jelly-like confection made from ingredients such as cornstarch, sugar, rose water, saffron, cardamom and nuts.
My favourite?
That was Manakish, the Bahraini pizza made with chapati, cheese, scrambled egg and served with a creamy anchovy paste. While we were waiting, a lady seated at a table across from us, offered me a slice of her Manakish… and then I got to return the favour when ours arrived.
Of course, no Arabian food tour would be complete without the saffron-infused Arabic coffee and a glass of red tea.
After the tour, I tried to walk around and see as much as I could, but it was such an
enormous city. I walked a bit of the pearling path and then wandering through the narrow alleyways of residential Muharraq. I enjoyed having a brief glimpse into the country’s culture and traditional neighborhoods rather than spending all my time beating to the cosmopolitan vibe in the high end malls and luxurious hubs.
I really honestly just lost interest with playing tourist and there was nowhere in particular I really needed or wanted to go, so I made my way back to the hotel.
I know… it was a pathetic attempt considering I’d done absolutely nothing the day before. I just wasn’t into Bahrain. The capital, Manama, was nice… boasting a modern skyline with impressive and iconic buildings… very similar to Doha… and Abu Dhabi. They all have the majestic high rises, and after a while, they all seem to blend into each other. To be fair, I hadn’t given Bahrain much of a chance. I was more enthralled with the view from the 28th floor in our hotel.
Speaking of the 28th floor… I made my way back there when I returned to the hotel. I sat down, relaxed… and started to do a little bit of writing, while enjoying the beautiful view… when in walked Stormin’ again.
Shit.
Why me?
No rest for the wicked.
If I thought his stuttering was bad the night before, I was dead wrong… as it was downright horrendous now. This time, he wasn’t alone. In walked Persnickety Marilyn behind him, radiating her fussiness and her overbearing nature.
Marilyn immediately zeroed in on Norman’s stutter.
As soon as he was out the door, she dove straight into her own relentless analytical interrogation. She immediately pointed out that his stuttering was unusual and something he didn’t normally do, which confirmed my suspicions. Was this an underlying predisposition? Had we all not noticed Stormin’s mild stutter… and now excessive amounts of alcohol was only working to make it more prominent? It was particularly bad that night, so I assumed he might’ve been more than a little tipsy. Marilyn, however, was convinced he was completely “pickled.” This was brilliant for her, as it provided new material to scrutinize and chatter about.
I had to look it up…
“Alcohol is a depressant that slows down the central nervous system, impairing coordination, judgment, and fine motor skills, including the muscles involved in speech. This can cause or exacerbate stuttering, especially in individuals already prone to speech difficulties.”

When Sue walked in, she and Marilyn had this little moment where they rolled their eyes and told me they’d done their “good deed” of the day by bringing home my “tomato friend,” as they’d found him at the museum.
Mr. Meat.
I never should’ve told her that story.
It made me feel sad for Mr. Meat. Yes, he’s the strangest person I’ve ever met… beyond frustrating, with unethical, cruel and bizarre worldviews… and politics so far right they seem rooted in nothing but brainwashing.
He’s the kind of person best tolerated in VERY small doses. Still… we’ve all at least made an effort to be patient with him. Marilyn and Sue, on the other hand, don’t even bother with him. They go out of their way to be rude to him, ignore him, belittle him… and isolate him further.
I left shortly after. I’d had enough of Persnickety for the time being. Her habit of negatively vocalizing every scenario and inconvenience was beginning to drain me. She was still my roommate… so I couldn’t escape for long.
When Persnickety returned to our room, she had a new gripe. She was done with Stormin’s stutter and “my friend with the tomatoes”… and she was on to Graham. I hardly cared, so I didn’t say a word… as I was pretty sure I wasn’t getting the full story. Knowing Graham, he’d likely have plenty to say about her as well. I was right…
I need to avoid Marilyn at all costs. It’s reached the point where her grating voice sets my entire mood on fire. Just seeing her face makes me want to yank out every one of her elongated facial whiskers and then just knock her over in her ridiculous platform sandals.
When you decide to avoid someone, that’s usually what they’re there all the time.
All the time.
We finally left Bahrain and headed back into Saudi Arabia. The border, surprisingly enough, was pretty seamless this time. Things went fairly smoothly both leaving Bahrain and entering Saudi… though there was no swag… much to our dismay.
Finding a place to camp for the night was another ordeal. I was dreading it after the previous night in Saudi, where we’d camped in Baltic conditions. Eventually, Martin managed to find a spot near the sea. It was actually a lovely location, but by the time we got the truck positioned, the sun had set, leaving us to pitch our tents in the dark.

As Martin maneuvered the truck into place, Mr. Bean decided it was the perfect time to start complaining. He wanted to set up his tent NOW… while there was still a bit of light left.
Too bad for him. We all wanted to do the same… but with our gear still onboard and Marianne not fully parked, no one could get started yet.
Of course, that didn’t stop him. In his broken English, with his giant protruding lips, wild hand gestures and incessant pointing, he continued to whine about setting up his tent now.
“Are you a toddler?” I asked.
Who were these people?
Seriously.
We were camping right next to the Persian Gulf… or so I thought. According to Google Maps, it’s called the Persian Gulf… and so I naturally assumed that’s what everyone referred to it as. I was wrong.
The sunset was stunning, like a painting of bright and brilliant oranges, reds and yellows. It was so picturesque that I couldn’t stop taking photos. I even decided to record a short video, which I later posted on TikTok… casually mentioning that we were on the ‘Persian Gulf.’
Big mistake.
Within hours, I was inundated with messages… from what felt like a million Saudi Arabians… correcting me and insisting it’s called the ‘Arabian Gulf.’ Lesson learned. I won’t make that mistake again. I did check Google Maps and they still refer to it as the ‘Persian Gulf.’
I’ve been horrendously misled.
Lutz approached me, inquiring as to whether or not we were cooking that evening. I replied with the affirmative. Yes, we were. He shook his head and muttered something incomprehensible under his breath.
“Excuse me?”
He did it again. He was not happy about having to be on cook crew. Lutz had been on our cook team since the very beginning, but had hardly lifted a finger to assist during any of the shops, cooks or cleans. I told him that he wasn’t obliged to help us if he didn’t want to, and he took that as an out and sat in the truck, playing with his tongue, while Warren, Mr. Meat and I prepared the meal.
Ok…
Cook crew, this time, was far from smooth, but I managed to learn a valuable lesson: when Mr. Meat declares himself an “expert” at something, it’s a sure sign he has no idea what he’s doing and is about to mess everything up.
Truer words have never been spoken. Or written.
We put him in charge of the burgers this time. Big mistake. He kept adding ingredients… and so did we… which turned the already soppy ground beef into an unmanageable, saturated disaster. He didn’t know how to form proper-sized patties… and the mixture was far too wet for anything to hold form. It was a nightmare. The burgers started falling apart before they even hit the grill. We ended up calling Mickey over to help drain the meat mixture and add enough flour to make it hold together… somewhat. Eventually, I took over the meat… and by the end of it, every inch of me was covered in ground beef.
This is the problem with Mr. Meat… he brags endlessly about how tremendous he is at everything, but when it comes time to deliver, he completely falls apart. It’s like he’s channeling some kind of Trump-like “braggadocious”persona… always the best at everything until you actually need results. Burgers, scrambled eggs, veal… you name it, he’s the master.
Except… he’s not.
Even after I took over on the meat side of the meal, we assigned him the simple task of making a salad dressing. All of a sudden, he was an expert in the dressing department… yet refused to tell me what ingredients he’d be using… because he “doesn’t like to give his secrets away.”
That should’ve been our red flag.
Unsurprisingly… and far from “secret,” he messed up the dressing, and once again, Mickey had to step in to save the day… and the salad. I would’ve handled it myself, but I was still knee-deep in burger beef repairs.
By the time we finished cooking, I was just praying no one would complain about the meal. I was ready to banish Karen from camp if she even dared to open her mouth. Shopping, cooking and putting up with Mr. Meat is stressful enough without having someone critique everything. Thank goodness, dinner went over as well as could be expected… and everyone seemed to enjoy it. No complaints, oddly enough. Somehow, we pulled it off.
I think I might have mentioned a time, a couple weeks ago, swimming at the sinkhole… when Kind Brian told Mr. Meat to show off his muscles for a photograph. It was a purely silly and innocent comment, yet Mr. Meat blew it entirely out of proportion. He immediately was set off into a rant about his supposed exercise regime… how many squats he can do and much he can bench press. It was beyond ludicrous because the guy is built like a twig and can hardly carry his own luggage.

Anyway… after our meal was finished and we were cleaning up, I asked Mr. Meat to help me push forward a couple of the propane tanks in the truck compartment, so that I could squeeze some of the collapsible chairs in. I could normally have done it myself, but my wrist was still not fully healed and I hardly had the required strength in my right arm.
He told me he couldn’t do it, letting me know that I’d asked the wrong person because “he didn’t have ANY strength in his arms.”
I was surprised. I said “Mr. Meat… the other day you were bragging about how much you could bench press!”
He replied… “Ya… but that’s different. That’s going up with weights.”
He then demonstrated the movement of lifting weights above his head.
I left it… ok… and found someone else to give me a hand. But… then I thought… “bench-pressing” is lying on your back and pushing weights upwards… but in conjunction to where your torso is, it’s going forward.
I’m sensing his “weight strength bragging” was a bunch of mumbo jumbo…
Perhaps he should stick to burgers, veal and salad dressing…
… and tomatoes.
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