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Second Holiest

Writer's picture: JoannaJoanna

I think I’ve mentioned before how much Mr. Meat boasts about his incredible strength and his awe-inspiring weight lifting skills. If you even mention the words “strength” or “fitness” or “gym,” it sets him off on a tangent. I did that today… entirely by accident.


I can’t even recall what I said… but it must have been some self-deprecating comment about my lack of muscle mass. For the better part of an hour, he followed me around, rattling off stats about his gym routine. I was treated to a full breakdown of Mr. Meat’s workout profile… his bench press numbers, squat press stats and a slew of other fitness jibber jabber I’m completely inept at understanding.


His arms are twigs.


They’re actually twiggier than twigs.


His arms are like teensy-weensy sprig offshoots of a small twig.



In all his body building bragging, he went as far as to say that his level of pumping iron, he reached “expert” level.


Does weight training reach “expert” level? I would think that term would apply to things like pinball or a chosen educational field.


Not. Working. Out. At. The. Gym.


But… who am I to say?


I’ve never been an expert at weight lifting, so how would I know? Mr. Meat is many things… but Mr. Muscles, he is not. Definitely… not. He can hardly lift his own luggage, never presents himself to help when equipment comes in or out of the truck… and his arms, like I’ve said, are more like twigs than buff, masculine arms.


Mr. Meat often boasts about being a police officer… but we’ve all figured out that he was employed as postal security. If you take a good look at his hands, it’s obvious he’s never done a hard day’s work in his life. I think postal security entails putting packages through an x-ray machine… but I could be wrong. I also think it also may require standing at the entrance and checking identification for random people picking up important mail.


Hardly the work of a New York City police officer. Mr. Meat would not be a character you’d see in NYPD Blues… at least not an ‘officer’ character.


I think I’ve mentioned before that I can’t imagine any respectable police force handing a gun over to him.



The thing with Mr. Meat is that you have to treat him like you would a child. When he says he’s an expert at lifting weights… you smile and nod. When he says he’s the best meat cooker ever… you smile and nod. When he says Trump is the best president the US has ever seen… you smile and nod… as tough as it might be.


All you can do is smile and nod.


He’s the kind of person you instinctively avoid provoking… because he’s always convinced he’s right. You can hear him muttering in the background… badmouthing us over things we said, things he overheard, things he thinks we said… or even things he imagines we might say. He’s a strange mix of simplicity and complexity, wrapped up in a deeply problematic “childlike” demeanor.


And then there’s his devotion to Trump. It’s creepy how much he idolizes that man. It doesn’t even border on obsession. It IS obsession. Watching him has been like having a front-row seat to the frightening power of brainwashing.


We arrived in Medina… or Madinah, as it’s often spelled. Medina is the second holiest town in Islam. The first being Mecca… but we are not permitted to go there because we’re not Muslim.



Although we had to skip Mecca, I do want to talk about this holy city for a moment though… and I’m going to list a few key facts for everyone.


*a little online researched info…


“Mecca is the holiest city in Islam and the birthplace of the Prophet Muhammad in 570 CE.


The Kaaba, located in the center of the Masjid al-Haram (Grand Mosque), is considered the House of Allah and the direction (qibla) toward which all Muslims pray.


Mecca is the destination of the Hajj pilgrimage, one of the Five Pillars of Islam, which every Muslim must perform at least once in their lifetime if physically and financially able. In addition to Hajj, Muslims can perform Umrah, a non-obligatory pilgrimage that can be undertaken at any time of the year.


Mecca is exclusively accessible to Muslims; non-Muslims are prohibited from entering the city.”


… hence why we couldn’t go.



Anyway… Medina, being the second holiest city to Mecca, is a stopover during the Hajj or Umrah pilgrimage… so a very busy place to be.


We got put up in the grottiest hotel ever. Actually… the truck accidentally delivered us to a lovely hotel at first, but that was a mistake. Too bad. It was an honest mistake… as it had a similar name. We unloaded all the bags off the truck… and headed in to the lobby, which was buzzing with activity. While Rosanna and Martin went up to the front desk to sort out our rooms, we all darted to the free dates… and ate them all.


Imagine our amusement and slight embarrassment when they announced we were in the wrong hotel… and we had to head back to the truck, pack up all our luggage again… and continue across town. Oops!


Sorry for eating all your dates!”


Our actual hotel wasn’t nearly as lovely as the other one had been. There were no free dates, for one. In fact, even though it was late afternoon, our rooms weren’t ready and we hate to sit and wait… one by one… one room at a time… You could tell they hardly cared about cleanliness or upgrading to newer products, as this hotel was merely a quick stopover for people on their pilgrimage. Bit of a gold mine.


A lot of people save their entire lives to come here and to Mecca. It’s shameful this is the hotel they get… but I have a feeling there are much, much worse out there.



Rebekah was the only one who went to Mecca. She’d left us in Jeddah… and was set to meet us back here. I have to admit, I have no idea how she gets around on her own sometimes. Actually, most of the time. She does it with limited, broken English… with no Arabic, no maps, no plans, no accommodation organized, no transportation, no eSIM or country SIM card, no WIFI and quite frankly… no real clue about where she’s going or how she’s getting back.


It’s astonishing how she’s made it this far. Baffling.


I was sharing with Karen again in Medina. I really wanted to upgrade to my own room again, but it was far too expensive… considering this is a predominantly pilgrimage hotel… and they can usually cram 5 or 6 people into each of these rooms. It would have cost me an arm and a leg to secure my own room.


Mickey was in the next room over… with Sue. We could hear Sue through the walls… rambling on and on and on and on…complaining about Marilyn the entire time. I’m positive she threw in a few digs at the rest of us… but most of her bellyaching was Persnickety.


The loud Persnickety play by play next door was nothing compared to the tumultuous sound of the rambunctious kids on our floor. They screamed and yelled and hollered and laughed… wildly running up and down the hallways, banging into the walls and doors until almost 2am. Or later. When that finally came to an end, the incessant beeping of a couple of outdoor car alarms began.


I wasn’t sure what was worse… the baltic cold of our recent camping or the sleepless nights of the 6th floor at Hotel Medina.


Toss up.


In the morning, I suggested we go find breakfast together. Karen and I, that is. The breakfast in our hotel was overpriced and held the reputation of ‘absolute crap’… so we decided to give that a miss. I was gonna wear a simple long dress, but thankfully Karen reminded me that maybe it wasn’t appropriate enough for the second holiest city in Islam. She was right. I wouldn’t have got far in my regular clothes. I quickly changed into my abaya and tied up my hair under a scarf.


I was ready.



We found a small Pakistani restaurant, just up the road from our hotel, and decided to give it a try. As we approached the front counter to place our breakfast order, it quickly became clear that we weren’t following the usual process. The man behind the counter barely glanced at us… let alone acknowledged us or listened to what we were saying.


Were we supposed to sit down first?


As I scanned the restaurant for an open table where we could sit down, we were brushed off and banished to a curtained-off section… clearly designated for women.


Segregation.


Ugh… there’s nothing that screams “second class citizen” like being blatantly snubbed and the shuffled off to a separate section. We had no other choice but to comply. That’s where the women went to eat. To the ladies already seated in our section, we were quite a peculiarity… an amusement for them… and they couldn’t stop staring at us… and smiling. One of them had her husband sitting with her… and he looked none too impressed that we were there. It was like we were ruining his meal… and badly influencing his women.



There were dirty dishes on the table when we arrived… but we weren’t there long before a waiter came through the curtain to remove them. Shortly after, he returned with a spray bottle and misted the entire table down. He then disappeared again. I assumed he was off to get a cloth so that he could wipe the table after spraying it… but I was wrong. He returned with an enormous piece of cling fling… and placed it, ever so carefully, over almost the entire table. The flimsy piece of cling film was set down to cover not only the spray he’d just sprayed… but all the bits of crumbs and remnants left behind.


True story.


Interesting


Both Karen and I ordered omelettes and one chapati… and a cup of karat tea. There was no variety of breakfast. No add ons or special sides. It was omelet or… no omelet.


A thin, feeble piece of cling film over the table was hardly enough to keep the table clean considered they didn’t provide us with cutlery or napkins.  We were careful not to rip it… while sat silently, eating with our fingers until the waiter returned and I politely asked for napkins.



There are no napkins in the Middle East. Well… I’m sure there are… but they aren’t common. What is common is tissue. Like Kleenex. It’s everywhere. A box of tissue is normally on every table in every restaurant… and it’s what you use if you want to blow your nose, clean your fingers, wipe your face, clear the table or generally tidy up.


Karen didn’t eat her omelet because she thought it was too spicy. It wasn’t.


At all.


She also didn’t eat the chapati because she didn’t like the texture. The texture? Of chapati?


Odd.


She did drink her tea… all of it…  but then she started complaining there was too much sugar in it. There’s always something… and she does it in such a manner that makes me feel like it’s entirely my fault.


Like… perhaps… I ordered wrong…?


It was hardly my mistake. She told me what she’d wanted and I repeated it to the water. I hoped that this didn’t set her off on a foul mood for the day. My fingers were crossed.


The one big thing Karen and I do have in common is our love of shopping. Not even just shopping… but meandering in and out of all the shops, checking out different handiwork and merchandise… and comparing prices.


We’d set off into Medina with not much in the way of high hopes for a day of sightseeing or shopping. What were possibly meant to do in a city with seven mosques and a million pilgrims? Most of the guidebooks and online information didn’t mention many souks.



Ugh… it was going to be a torturous day.


Except it wasn’t…


It was exhilarating.


I’ve never been witness to a religious pilgrimage before… so this was a whole new experience for me.


The largest and most impressive of the Medina mosques is the Prophet’s Mosque, with 182 beautifully decorated canopies, covering all the courtyard.


There were so many people. So many people from all over the world. I can’t even imagine what it’s like when people actually make the trek here for the Hajj pilgrimage. But… I do have one complaint. I have to say that there were a lot more men’s toilets than women’s. I don’t care about who’s who in whose eyes… or who’s more important… that absolutely does not make sense.


At all.


Women need more restrooms than men do. A few times, even I had to deke in and fix my hair and my headscarf… without a mirror!


Much to our delight, there were a lot of small shops scattered around. While most of the items for sale were cheap and plastic, we still managed to find some hidden treasures. I left with a lot of prayer beads and a a gorgeous assortment of scarves.


I liked Medina.



I enjoyed witnessing the pilgrimage and being part of something so monumental, even though I’m neither Muslim nor particularly religious at all. In fact, I’m fully opposed to the concept of organized religion. I didn’t share that with any of the pilgrims though. Along the way, a few people stopped us to ask where we were from and warmly welcomed us to Saudi Arabia. Yes… a couple of them asked if we were Muslim, but no one reacted badly when we said no. If anything, their hospitality seemed to grow.


It made us even more welcome.


Karen had been set on seeing one of the museums in the area… and I wasn’t super keen, so I was just going to take off on my own and leave her there. As soon as we got there though, she said she wasn’t feeling well and had to sit down, claiming she’d had too much sugar. I didn’t really understand how or when oh why… but oh well. I think she’s one of those people that needs an ailment.


I had no idea what to do. I offered to take her to the bathroom. I offered to go to the pharmacy. I offered to accompany her back home. She didn’t want anything except to sit on the stairs, claiming “it would pass.” I was unsure as to whether I should stay with her. I feel like she’s had this ‘victim illness’ since I met her. There have been so many incidents that she complains about her stomach giving her issues… and then, voila! she’s up and eating more! My suspicions? She’s mentioned that her shoes don’t fit properly… I highly suspect that her sitting down with stomach issues leaned more towards sore feet than anything having to do with spice or sugar or a bug going around.



Finally… I had to walk away.


I think she remained seated for another five more minutes… and then went back to the hotel. I not only ‘think’ that… I ‘know’ that.


Before heading back to the hotel, I made a point of visiting as many mosques in the area as I could. Even on my way back, I wandered through some of Medina’s side streets. I love getting and immersing myself into areas away from the touristy spots.


We’d been told to pack a lunch for the following day, so I stopped at a small grocer to pick up some hummus, cucumbers and a couple of bananas.


While strolling down a narrow alley, I came across a young man from Bangladesh. I said hello… and he immediately struck up a conversation. He introduced himself and explained that he’d only recently arrived in Medina and was struggling to find work. When I gently asked about how he was managing with money and food, he quickly brushed off the question… and I assumed that things weren’t going terribly well.


Without hesitation, I handed him the bag of food I’d just bought, insisting he take it. It wasn’t much, but it was something.


He accepted it gratefully. Then… he asked if we could be friends on Facebook.


Eek…


That was a loaded question… and usually always a big mistake. In all of my years and experiences traveling, connecting with locals on social media platforms hasn’t always worked out in my favour. But… there I was.


I could hardly say no.



What I should’ve done was connect him to My Crush on the World Facebook page… but I didn’t.


He took a screenshot of my Facebook profile… and by the time I got back to the hotel, I had a new friend request.


I accepted.


From that very moment of accepting, I got inundated with;

“Hi,” “Hello,” “???” “How are you?” “??” “What you doing?” “Hi,” “??” “Hi”


… and for some reason, he kept calling me “dude”… but he spelled it “dud.”


Hi did,” “What you doing dud?”…


It didn’t stop.


I ignored him as long as I could but when the messages switched to “are you angry with me dud?” I finally wrote back, saying “No, I’m not angry with you.” I also asked him to ease up on the messages, as I was trying to have a nap.


It worked. He stopped.

For an hour.

Then it started all over again.


Hi,” “Hi dud,” Hello,” “How are you?” “??” “???” “How long you stay?” “???” “What you doing dud?” “Hi,” “What is happening dud?” “??” “?” “Hello,” “Hi”…


OMG.


In addition to this, he liked every single photo I put up and commented on most of them as well.


“Beautiful dud,” “Where is this?” “How long you go there?” “This is beautiful,” “Please tell me where this dud.”


This is exactly the reason why you should really filter your Facebook friend requests.


I’m an idiot.


It didn’t stop…


“Hi dud,” Hello,” “How are you dud?”

“??”

“???”


That was it.


I’d reached my “dud” limit. It was infuriating. Even as I made a call to my mom, the hi-dud’s and hello-dud’s kept popping up on the screen… with, of course, the occasional “are you angry dud?”


Angry?

Getting there…


I sent one final message to him… telling him that I wasn’t much for messenger chat… I wished him all most luck finding a job… I wished him the most wonderful life…


Then I told him that this unfortunately this was where our friendship had to come to an end.


And then… I blocked him.



Let this be a warning. To all of you. People can be lovely and have the best intentions… but they can be a bit too much.


Like most of the people on this tour.


The kids in the hotel continued their running and screaming rampage throughout the second night as well. The car alarms were going off outside. As much as I detest camping, I longed for my little nylon nest… curled up, freezing to death in the world’s worst sleeping bag… listening to the wind howl… and Lutz snore…


I did send Rosanna a text about upgrading…


“Hey - when it’s not too expensive, I do love having my own room… and it’s really come down to “break time” lolololol

🫶

When it’s not possible though, I’m ok to share with anyone though…

……

………

………… except Marilyn.


Please… 🙏 thank you…


It’s part of my New Year’s resolution not to put myself in a position to be unnecessarily aggravated…”


It’s true.


No.


My foot is officially down.


I’ve paid good money for this atrocious tour. Why should I be subject to the unnecessary aggravation of ghastly Persnickety?



As soon as we got back, we were all subjected to the endless ramblings and over-the-top dramatics of both Sue and Persnickety. They couldn’t stop rehashing the day’s events, each subtly blaming the other for the supposed “atrocities” they endured.


And what happened?


They claimed they were arrested at the Prophet’s Mosque.


They weren’t.


The truth was far less dramatic. They had tried to enter the mosque, but Marilyn wasn’t dressed appropriately… and was asked to leave. That’s it. They were politely escorted off the premises, no arrests, no scandal. But Marilyn, in her infinite wisdom, had decided it was her “right” as a non-Muslim to enter without adhering to the rules. She didn’t bother to dress modestly, didn’t cover her greasy bangs and obviously seemed oblivious to the basic etiquette required to visit the most significant mosque in the second holiest city of Islam.


Had either of them they taken a moment to research mosque etiquette… or put any effort into their attire, their day might have gone a lot smoother. But instead, they turned their ignorance into a joke.



They seemed to think their story would amuse us and impress us, but all it did was leave us feeling ashamed to be associated with them. Their actions were disrespectful and disgraceful. The more I see of these two, the less I want anything to do with them.


The countdown is on…


Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.


Martin and Rosanna have been fighting constantly. When Rosanna finalized the schedule, she did it while Martin was busy un-stucking the truck. It wasn’t that he disliked the changes, as they meant less driving for him… but he threw a complete tantrum because she made the decisions without him. On one hand, Martin wants nothing to do with the tour… or ANY of us… yet all of a sudden, he’s upset because they’re supposed to be a “team.”



I get why Rosanna pushed ahead. We were all anxiously waiting for some clarity on the next steps…and someone had to take charge.


Martin is acting like a big baby. He rarely interacts with anyone, taking every chance he can to distance himself. I thought we’d bonded during the truck-muck-stuck fiasco, but since arriving in Jeddah, he hasn’t said a single word to me. He actually hasn’t said a word to anyone, for that matter. Honestly, I think he hates all of us.


The worst part?

He’s paid to act like he doesn’t.

His tips depend on pretending he likes us.


This tour is wearing everyone down… especially me.


As we rumbled along the dusty coastal roads of Saudi Arabia, we stumbled upon a day’s finishing point for the Dakar Rally. And WOW… it was incredible. Seeing the dirty, dusty cars and bikes come in was nothing short of thrilling… and for a brief moment, it felt like we were part of something massive. Ironically, the only reason we stopped was because Martin wanted to. If he hadn’t wanted to, we’d have driven right past it… none the wiser.



Karen texted Denise to let her and Brian know we were there, but never received a reply. Honestly, I think they walked away from the tour, the truck and ALL of us the moment they left.


Maybe I should’ve done the same when I first had the thought. Instead… I’m stuck here… rolling down the highway with this dysfunctional crew of freaks.


Allah, help me.


I’m literally dying.


RIP me.





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