It was early morning… and we had a long, long drive ahead, so everyone was up and moving… some obviously faster than others. Those few desperate to claim the front seats in the truck darted ahead… while the rest of us dawdled behind, groggy and grumbling under our breath. I did my best to get there in time to snag a seat with decent legroom… but… as usual… they were already reserved by the time I arrived.
I don’t understand how they don’t see that they don’t move around. It’s baffling…
Each day, Rosanna writes a beautiful quote on the truck door whiteboard. The New Year’s Day quote really resonated with me… and I was trying to hold onto its message as a positive affirmation throughout the day.
“And suddenly you just know it’s time to start something new and trust the magic of beginning.”
I was trying to be positive, kind and tolerant… after all… it was a brand new year.
Right?
Then I saw Persnickety and the magic of beginnings faded away immediately. She was already in the truck… fussing over something trivial… and Sue arrived shortly after. That’s when the first drama of the New Year kicked off. In corner number 1…. Persnickety Marilyn and in corner number 2… attention hog, Sue.
These two are something else. They spend almost all their time together, yet they can’t seem to stand each other. Well… that’s not entirely accurate. I think Marilyn sees Sue as her ‘travel bestie’ and doesn’t have much else to do but follow her around. Meanwhile, Sue seems to know Marilyn is really all she’s got… but still complains about her nonstop.
It’s a never-ending cycle.
As soon as Sue climbed on board, Persnickety started moaning about how much work it had been to clean up all the confetti from the New Year’s celebration, the previous evening. Not one to be outdone, Sue immediately escalated things, huffing about how she had to clean out the entire breakfast breadbox because honey had spilled all over it.
It went back and forth.
I just stood there… listening to their ridiculous bickering… thinking about how many more days of this nonsense I still had to endure.
A lot.
The countdown is on.
The argument ended when Sue stormed off, yelling back, “A VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR TO YOU TOO, MARILYN!” Then… of course… she spent the rest of the week complaining about Persnickety’s supposed theatrics.
The best part?
Mickey told us that Persnickety hadn’t actually done anything to clean up the confetti at all. Not one single tiny piece. And yet… somehow, she still managed to paint herself as the victim.
… Again.
She thrives on quiet resentments, using passive-aggressive comments like carefully crafted weapons.
As I’ve said before… the countdown is on.
Get me out of here.
For the past couple of days, Martin’s driving has been erratic… to say the least. The smallest inconvenience seems to set him off… and we’re the ones who suffer. He barrels down the road… hair on fire… swerving and curving and slamming on the brakes… leaving us sluggish passengers bouncing around in the back, like a bunch of bobbleheads. We eventually arrived at our next stop… Rijal Almaa, a 900 year old village that was meant to be a highlight of the trip.
Rijal Almaa’s village museum was supposed to be a “treasure trove of cultural tales and rare exhibits”… and I’m sure it would have been… had it not been closed. This was getting to be ridiculous.
Everything we did - closed.
Everywhere we went - closed.
Rosanna and Martin were visibly frustrated… (as were most of us)… insisting to everyone that would listen, that the website and guidebooks said it opened at 9am. This is exactly the kind of situation where having a local guide would make all the difference.
Serenity now…
The village itself was quite charming, with its old stone buildings and quaint, peaceful atmosphere… but there wasn’t much to do… or to explore. There was a small gift shop and a kind man there who kept gesturing for us to all come up and check out the view from his window above. At first, we thought he was inviting us into his home… which seemed odd but intriguing… but it turned out to be a lovely coffee shop with a breathtaking view of the entire village and the surrounding area. From the balcony, we called down to Martin and Rosanna to come up and join us, but they refused. Ok… stay on the road then. Mickey wouldn’t budge from their sides either… but none of us were surprised about that. The whole situation just added to the craziness of this trip.
To make up for the botched village visit, the unexpected museum closure and the long, winding route through the mountains, Rosanna found a nearby honey refinery for us to visit instead. Someone in the village had apparently recommended it… and thank goodness they did, as it turned out to be surprisingly impressive… and a definite highlight.
Tucked away in the middle of nowhere, up a dusty dirt path, was the honey refinery, called The Cottage. It was decked out with a quirky “honey patrol” police car parked out front, a towering water windmill and an enormous white house with a patio that looked like something straight out of a Greek Islands postcard. For just 10 Saudi riyals, we were permitted to climb all the way to the fifth floor of the big white house. Imagine our delight when we reached the top floor… and found a cozy and charming, wooden cottage-style scene. It was like a traditional rustic bar… but instead of beer, it was all honey.
Endless honey.
There were 56 different types of honey to sample… a true paradise for honey lovers like me. Eucalyptus honey, avocado honey, cotton honey, lavender honey… and then another 52 other delicious flavours. As much as I adore honey, even I couldn’t make it through the full lineup. It was honey overload. This honey moment made missing yet another museum completely worth it… though I’m sure the self-proclaimed travel scholars would beg to differ.
Two of the crew were not impressed with the honey stop and refused to go in.
Why?
#.1 ~ it’s much money to pay.
#.2 ~ I’m not really in the mood for honey right now.
Who?
#.1 ~ Karen
#.2 ~ Persnickety
For reference… 10SAR is the equivalent of $3.83 Canadian… a small price to pay for a taste of 56 varieties of honey… when purchasing a small jar was about $60.
But… whatever floats your boat.
After driving more forever down the highway… we arrived in the coastal town of Jazan.
So… near Jazan is Farasan Island… which was the recommended destination planned for all of us the following day. But first… we had to pre-register for our ferry tickets. Even though the ferry crossing was free… the process was anything but easy and straightforward. We had to physically go to the terminal, present our passports in order to receive two flimsy pieces of paper granting us access to the island… and back. The ferry departed each day at the ungodly hour of 5am and then returned at 2pm.
Terribly early.
Not ideal…
Meanwhile, Warren had come to me with the suggestion of us both renting a car and escaping into the Fayfa Mountains for the day.
Hmmmmm…
To be honest, I didn’t know much (anything) about the Fayfa Mountains. I didn’t know where they were… I didn’t know what made them special… nothing. Group tours have a way of eliminating a certain degree of travel curiosity. When I’m solo traveling, research is a full-time job… planning routes, reading reviews, picking hotels, figuring out transport and making note of opening hours and must-see spots. It really is a full time job. But on tours like this, I usually let my travel brain take a backseat… and I tend to just blindly go along with the group activities.
While I fully understand why people enjoy this style of group adventure, I hate how it has the ability to strip away the thrill of figuring things out on my own. But… whether the route through the Fayfa Mountains was extraordinary or not didn’t really matter. I needed to get away from the group.
Desperately.
I didn’t care how far away they were, how tall they were, how beautiful they were… or what adventure awaited me there… I just needed a few hours of solitude… or should I say… “non-group.”
The alternative?
Farasan Island… with a planned departure of 4am to catch a ferry… with the likes of Lutz and Persnickety and Mr. Bean and the Geisha…
Highlights of Farasan?
~ Bird watching? Nope. Not interested.
~ Swimming? Swimming FULLY CLOTHED (as is the law for women here) in the Red Sea with FORTY FOUR species of sharks? Nope. Hard pass.
~ Cramming into three taxis with this entire bus crew? Nope. I’m good, thanks…
It was decided. The Fayfa Mountains were calling my name. Loudly.
It didn’t take long for me to realize that my decision to go to the Fayfa Mountains with Warren… was pretty much just about me deciding to go to the Fayfa Mountains with Warren. His entire plan to visit the Fayfa Mountains hinged on ME agreeing to it. If I said no, his whole plan would fall apart.
My yes had to include…
~ Ordering / Paying the Uber to get to the car rental at the airport.
~ Renting the car.
~ Holding a valid drivers license.
~ Holding a valid international drivers license.
~ Having a credit card.
~ Paying for the car.
~ Paying the deposit.
~ Paying the insurance.
~ Paying the over-mileage.
~ Signing all the documents.
~ Driving the car.
~ Having data on my phone.
~ Getting all the gas.
~ Navigating.
~ Ordering / Paying the Uber to get back to the hotel.
I’m sure I’m missing something else… Warren owes me a LOT of money. I wasn’t entirely sure I was ready to take on everything,but… ultimately… the responsibility fell on me.
The Fayfa Mountains were stunning… dramatic and hazy, with viewpoints that stretched right across the horizon. They reminded us both of Greece, with all the white houses dotting the hills. It was breathtaking… but the journey itself was far from idyllic.
Don’t get me wrong… I’m glad I went… I just wish it had been ever so slightly different…
Warren kept warning me that he’d read about some steep, gravel roads, but I wasn’t overly concerned. I’d driven worse. Our vehicle, however, was a complete disaster. It was a gutless automatic with barely enough power to handle a slight paved incline, let alone some of the steeper mountain roads. At one point, I had to back up and take another run at a small hill, pedal to the metal, just to make it up and over. It was ridiculous.
… and a little bit scary too…
The roads were very narrow with switchbacks and tight, sharp corners. There were far too many large trucks barreling along at alarming speeds for my liking. I had to back up quite a few times… inching backwards until I found a small space to shimmy into until a semi could squeeze past me.
Then came the real test of patience and operational competence. Warren managed to direct me down a narrow, tricky road, insisting there was something “worth seeing”… though he couldn’t quite explain what “worth seeing” was. Him… with zero data, no decent downloaded map, and absolutely no clue where we were headed… led me directly into an absolute nightmare. To my right, a sheer drop. Ahead, an even narrower, uneven and drop-off road clogged with vehicles. Turning around wasn’t an option, nor was it a possibility. There wasn’t enough room to do anything at all. Backing up? Impossible on the steep incline we’d just come down. Believe me… I tried.
I was stuck… perched on a harrowing road… in the mountains… in Saudi Arabia… in a rented car.
I sat there… my head in my hands… needing a moment to de-stress and assess my situation… but Warren, in all his helpful wisdom, decided to continuously tell me to “just calm down.”
Calm down?
That’s rich coming from someone who’s just sitting there…
It was infuriating.
I got us out. It took a LOT of inching forward-backward-forward-backward. It also took a lot of patience and taking everything very easy. I talked myself through every move… reassuring myself that I could get myself out of this predicament.
Not once did I instruct myself to “calm down.”
Speaking of “not once,” not once did Warren offer to drive or attempt to untangle the mess he’d gotten us into… and honestly, I doubted he could even manage it.
Oh… how gender roles reverse.
The looks we received from passing cars made it obvious that people were wondering why the hell I was driving when there was a man sitting beside me. Let them wonder. Some men simply don’t have what it takes.
Warren is a bit of a nerd. No… actually there is no “bit” about it. And nope, he still doesn’t wear deodorant, as I’ve mentioned before. He takes pride in things like not watching TV or movies, not listening to music… and avoiding fast food, which are all admirable in theory. But he pairs these with the most boring hum-drum facts, like…
“I haven’t turned on a television since May 9th, 2017…”
Cool story, Warren. Nobody cares.
His phone is so outdated it can’t run apps, so he can’t communicate, navigate or do much of anything. While his convictions are respectable, there’s a point where abstaining from absolutely everything backs you into such an out-of-touch corner that you lose connection with the world around you.
After my brief brush with death… we pulled over at a small roadside restaurant. I was famished and hadn’t packed a lunch. As I went to get out of the car, Warren placed his hand on my arm and calmly said to me, “You might not be allowed in.”
Excuse me???
He continued… “because you’re a woman.”
WTF?
He said it with such an air of smug uncertainty… like he was really doing me a favour in warning me of what might be in my foreseeable restaurant future.
“Fuck right off,” was my immediate thought, though I kept my response to an angry, irritated glare, and pulled away from his condescending touch.
Ok… it’s true that there are places in Saudi where women are not permitted to enter, but I had my doubts that one of them was a greasy spoon fast food, take out joint at the top of a windy mountainous road.
What he was doing was asserting his masculinity after I’d stripped him of it by doing absolutely everything else, including removing us from a dangerous situation that he’d stupidly put us in.
Ignoring him… I walked right inside, greeting every single man there as I did. They, in turn, smiled at me and ALL of them said hello. I was NOT pushed out and told never to return. Nope. Everyone was courteous and kind. Warren trailed in behind… following me up to the counter.
As I was looking at the picture menu and trying to figure out if they had any vegetarian options, Warren approached the man at the cashier, pointed in my direction, opened his mouth and asked, “Is it okay if she’s here?”
It was a horrifying moment.
Dreadful.
I was appalled.
If there was ever a moment I wanted to push someone off a cliff… in Saudi Arabia… in a rented car… this was it.
I now understand the true definition of a weak man. He was standing right there beside me.
Being asked to leave would have been one thing. But for him to outright ask if I was allowed to be there? That was something else entirely.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
He wouldn’t have even made it to the Fayfa Mountains without me. In fact, he wouldn’t have taken this trip at all. And let’s be real… if it weren’t for my driving, he’d still be stuck on that cliff.
So ya… although I did get an escape from the majority of the group… it wasn’t a perfect day. Every day on this trip seems to bring its own set of challenges.
When we got back to town, we stopped by the supermarket to grab supplies for the next day’s drive. On the road, we ran into Mickey and Karen, who had just completed their shop. Curious, I asked how their trip to the island had been.
“I didn’t go,” Karen said casually. Oh… why?
Seemed odd that Karen wouldn’t go on a FREE trip.
Admin.
She told me that she had “admin” work to do. Admin? What does that even mean?
It’s code for “watch television”…
ALL.
DAY.
LONG.
Mickey, on the other hand, DID go to the island… but didn’t do anything past that. No exploration… My suspicions are that she expected Rosanna and Martin to invite her on their personal tour of the island… but I don’t think they did. So… sounds like she sat there, at the ferry terminal area… and waited for everyone to return.
She’ll make a fabulous tour guide…
Ugh.
Then… we saw Lutz and Harald… and then Sue, who was obviously upset with me about something. You wouldn’t think there would be mind games on a Middle Eastern group tour with a bunch of people between the ages of 50-90… but there are. I was right back to being annoyed by everything and everyone.
I was done.
But… what possible reason would Sue have to be upset with me? What could I possibly have done?
Could it be that the day on the island was rushed and contrived… and she probably would’ve seen more birds had she come with us to the Fayfa Mountains? Could it be that we didn’t invite her?
All of those could very well be true… but…
I was rooming with Sue in Jazan… and for the first time since the tour started, we all got our own room. There were two of us to an apartment… with two rooms.
My own room???
Seriously???!!!!
Bliss.
I was euphoric when I heard. Over the moon. Of course, always having to have the one up, Sue piped in with a snide remark how she’d already had her own room in Abha for two days. I didn’t care… I was just thinking about me… and… yay… FINALLY… my ownroom!!!
This was thrilling news.
I just wanted to hang out in my own room with me. Just me and me. No one else… but me. I also didn’t want the last thing I did at night was to sit there and listen to a nonstop running description of everything Persnickety Marilyn had said and done in the past 24 hours. I didn’t care.
Both nights in Jazan… at the end of the day… I said goodnight to Sue, walked into my own room, closed the door… and had some very much-deserved me time.
She didn’t like that.
She wanted someone to listen to her complain about Marilyn.
*she should start a blog…
And… of course… she had to let everyone on the tour know that she didn’t think I was being social enough.
Oh well.
Bad me.
Shitty me.
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