Anything can be a truck…
A friend once described Timberlands as “Boots that were built like a truck.” I usually favour Merrel’s, but it was nonetheless a good description.
‘Truck’ is a great way to describe something that is sturdy, tough, and functional. You can therefore be confident that when I compare something to a truck, it is a compliment. And it may well be that anything can be a truck.
Some time ago I started favouring salads in my lunch. Annoyingly, unless I brought my salad in a mason jar (which I never did), the olive oil was sure to leak and make some degree of an oily mess (if you aren’t accustomed to encountering messes, then you should know that oily messes are the worst).
And then I found this stainless steel air tight container that clips shut. It is a container that is built like a truck. You could beat someone to death with it, wipe it off, and then eat your untainted meal with no problems. The oil won’t leak, because not even the air will get out. Don’t put your hamster in there, because it will die.
And even though it’s doesn’t have wheels and isn’t a truck and isn’t made of tin, I’m inclined to refer to it as my Truck Tin (because it’s a ‘food tin’ that’s built like a truck), and I will continue to do so until a more suitable term happens along.
On my most recent trip to Mexico I went with shoulder bag (which I got at a rummage sale for 45¢, and well worth over a dollar to every penny spent on it) and a 30L backpack from Decathlon. Despite the limited space, I decided to bring my Truck Tin. At the time it seemed like a questionable decision, but it has demonstrated itself to be well worth its weight and volume.
The Truck Tin allows me to travel in security with any kind of food – salads, sauces, stews – even soups (!). Further, when not carrying food it can accommodate an assortment of other items from my backpack – from electronics to sewing equipment to clothing. It need never represent ‘dead volume.’ Regret has never been farther from a packing decision.
Diced cucumbers and tomatoes seasoned with tajine has been a regular charge of the truck tin, but the extent of its value had not been felt so profoundly as when it allowed me to carry and store multiple meals’ worth of ceviche.
When I found Thelma’s Liquados y Ceviches (a little stand in the market south of the central plaza in Xela, Guatemala), I ran back to my hostel to retrieve my truck tin. The lady was pleased to see me actually return after having quizzed her on her prices. When she saw my Truck Tin she was taken aback. To paraphrase/translate, she exclaimed to myself and her young coworker: “Where did you get this? This is good! Was it expensive? Children couldn’t smash it! This is strong! Look at this! Wow!” She was impressed with my truck tin, and I was impressed with her ability to appreciate it immediately.
Her ceviche, by the way, is excellent.