Iranian Rappers And Persian Porn Page 2

  I’d had an interesting two and a half weeks. I’d hitchhiked all the way from France to eastern Turkey, stopping off at places of interest en route to Iran, which was now only one or two day’s hitching to the east. I’d met some wonderful people in the process and had traveled through France, Belgium, Germany, Austria, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, Bulgaria, and Turkey.

  I now stuck out my thumb for an approaching truck. It stopped, but in hindsight I wish it hadn’t. Writing this now, months later, still sends a shiver up my spine.

  I jumped in and was happy to take the weight off my feet and dump my horrible backpack. I said “Malatya,” to the driver who responded with an “Ooh” as if to say, “That’s a big journey!”

  He was a Saddam Hussein look-alike, although he was in better shape than the original and had a bushier trademark ’stache.

  I asked Saddam on numerous occasions to make sure we were definitely going to Malatya. Although he spoke no English, Saddam established a sort of standing joke to my question and would shake his head and say, “Istanbul.” When I gave him a concerned look, he’d laugh and say, “Malatya, Malatya.” It wasn’t a rib tickler by any stretch of the imagination, but at least he grasped where I wanted to go.

  On our way through dramatic mountain gorges and fields of tobacco plantations, we pulled over next to some children who were selling apples opposite their families’ nomadic tents. They were young guys of about twelve or thirteen, and they filled up a carrier bag full of green apples for Saddam, which they weighed on a small scale. Saddam smiled at them and reached inside the truck, where he produced a handheld scale of his own. He weighed the bag, indicated it was lighter than they claimed, and demanded more apples for his money. The kids knew they’d been rumbled but took it with a smile and even handed me a free apple for the road. Things got weird not long after this.

  We traveled along a dusty section of road and onto the highway heading directly to Malatya, which was by now due east. We’d been traveling for a few minutes, when Saddam veered abruptly off the highway and onto a gravelly track heading north toward what looked like a deserted industrial site. I protested immediately and pointed in the direction of Malatya whilst saying the city’s name forcefully several times. Saddam put his foot down on the accelerator and tried his previous joke of “Istanbul, Istanbul!” It hadn’t been funny before, and it certainly wasn’t now.

  He sped along the bumpy track, going too fast for me to get out, as I continued protesting, “Malatya! Malatya!” He ignored me completely now and drove at full throttle until he slowed down in the middle of an eerie-as-hell area straight out of a cheap B horror movie. The truck swung round to face the way we came and then came to a halt in the center of a deserted field. The highway was in front of us now along with a vast, disused industrial factory, quite a distance away. To the right of the factory were, I think, three unfinished or abandoned apartment blocks, which wouldn’t have looked out of place in neighboring Iraq’s bombed-out front line. On our immediate right was a small orchard enclosed by barbed wire. Behind us were more fields stretching off into the distance. There was, effectively, no place for me to go unless I got out and hiked back toward the highway. Just to add to the foreboding setting, it was now beginning to get dark.

  Saddam got out of the truck and gestured for me to follow. “Like hell,” I thought, and stayed put, saying, “No!” He tried again to persuade me to join him but I was having none of it.

  As if thinking this over for a second, he stood in front of the truck and looked around at our location. Slowly moving off, he headed toward the orchard. Unhooking a section of the barbed wire fence, he gained entry and stepped inside. I tried to see what he was up to through the small trees, but in the disappearing light it was difficult to be sure. From what I could make out, though, it looked like Saddam had gone into a small shed and was rummaging around for something. I immediately thought he had foul play in mind. It just didn’t seem likely he was tending to his prize tomato plants or new geraniums, and I began to wonder seriously if he was after some sort of weapon.

  Under normal circumstances, I was sure I could take him in a fight, but if my gut feeling was right and he was getting “tooled up,” then that was another matter altogether.

  My adrenaline started to elevate, and I decided to equal the odds a bit, grabbing my six-inch camping knife from the side pocket of my backpack. I attached it to my belt and flicked open its sheath, just in case I needed it in a hurry. I’d only ever used it for carving wood, but if need be and things got serious, then it would do the job. Before leaving England, I’d sharpened it to such a degree that it would shave the hairs off my arm, so I figured that as long as Saddam didn’t have a gun then I’d be okay. If he did, I’d be fucked.

  Part of me tried to discount the feeling of danger as complete paranoia and to tell myself, “Hey, this can’t be happening,” and “It’s probably all very innocent,” but a much more powerful part of me knew something was wrong. A good ten minutes passed agonizingly slowly, but still there was no sign of Saddam. With the passing of time, my thoughts, like the sky, got darker and darker. It seemed to me, rightly or wrongly, that he was waiting for me to venture inquisitively into the orchard to see where he’d got to—fat chance.

  I got more freaked out as time ticked by. What the hell was he doing? Was he waiting for it to get dark? My heart pounded and my breathing quickened as I thought through my options. The way I saw it, I could either give him the benefit of the doubt and stick where I was until he returned, or assume the worst and get the hell out of here on foot. I chose the latter. Grabbing my backpack, I slipped from the driver’s side of the truck unnoticed and headed out across the field in the direction of the highway and disused factory.

  It was a long walk, and luckily the field was ploughed and too bumpy for him to follow in his truck if he noticed I was gone. About a third of the way across the field, I looked back and saw Saddam run to his truck and drive off at speed. He’d obviously noticed I was gone and as insane and surreal as it sounds, now appeared to be coming after me.

  My adrenaline accelerated rapidly as I ran all manner of nightmare scenarios through my head. He drove along the outskirts of the field slightly parallel to my direction of travel, and although there was a good distance between us, he would easily be able to close the gap if the track he was driving along veered back toward my route further up ahead. For the life of me, though, I couldn’t make out if this was the case, as the little light that was left just wasn’t enough to see for certain.

  Turning around wasn’t an option; I needed to get to the highway, not head off deeper into the unknown. I was also convinced that I could batter Saddam to a pulp unless he had his own little weapon of mass destruction, and I felt genuinely pissed off that he was messing with and underestimating me. I shook my head at the insanity of the situation. I just wanted to be in a nice hotel with a hot shower not dealing with this demented shit in a deserted field.

  I watched his truck like a hawk as it approached the far side of the factory just hoping upon hope that there wasn’t an unseen track that would enable him to head in my direction.

  “Please say he’s not turning there.”

  He turned.

  The lonely realization that I was going to have to confront him hit me hard. I didn’t even try to increase my pace as there was no point now—he would intercept me before I reached the highway, and that was that. Saddam skidded to an abrupt halt about five hundred feet away and got out of the truck. I continued forward taking several deep breaths, desperately trying to control the buildup of adrenaline running wild through my veins. Every footstep felt heavy as I went on high alert ready for fight or flight. I still hoped it would be the latter.

  Fear gnarled away at me shouting, “What if he’s armed!? What if he’s fucking armed!?” I tethered the thought as I walked closer and repeated to myself that if he was armed, then I wouldn’t hesitate to reach for my knife. But in reality it was the last thing I wanted to do—I just w
anted to be rid of him and hit the highway unhindered.

  When I got within twenty feet of him, Saddam walked toward me aggressively and ordered me, with a pointed finger and some yelled Turkish expletives, back into the truck. My adrenaline went through the roof now and I was ready to go for him big-time but was still very much in favor of the flight option. Under normal circumstances, in, say, a pub in England, I would have stood my ground, but out here in the middle of a deserted Turkish field, it was a different matter. If I could get away from him then I would and my ego be dammed.

  As such, I tried to simply walk around him. This strategy proved to be worthless, as he quickly moved toward me and tried to grab my arm, which I held out blocking his advance. I pulled violently away but with the weight of my backpack, I spun almost completely around. He grabbed my pack instantly and with both hands tried to wrestle it and me to the ground.

  I fought wildly to remain upright as he yanked the pack and me from side to side. Its weight and size were a great lever for him, and I struggled to get the upper hand. Through sheer aggression, as opposed to technique, I managed to get him in front of me again, where I now grabbed his wrists like a vice. His face was real close, and the perfect distance for me to head butt, but my backpack, still strapped to me, made this maneuvering impossible.

  Instead, I shoved him back with both hands as hard as I could yelling, “Fucking get back! Stay where you fucking are!” There was no need for translation. I stepped backward to create some space between us, in the hope he’d now back off without things getting any worse than they already were. No chance. He reached down for a jagged rock and began to come at me with it. That was it: if he had a weapon then so would I. I drew my knife and really thought I was going to have to butcher the bastard into several Sunday roasts.

  I flashed the gleaming blade at him and bellowed, “Drop the stone! Fucking get back!”

  He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes going from me, to the knife, then back to me again. I got the impression he was figuring out if I had the balls to use it. And the truth of the matter was, I was very reluctant to do so, but if push came to shove and he tried to batter me with the rock, then I’m sure I would have plunged the weirdo.

  I yelled once more, “Drop it! Fucking get back!”

  He looked again at the knife then thankfully saw sense and slowly backed off, dropping the rock in the process, before getting into his truck. I didn’t waste time sticking around in case he changed his mind or had a weapon in the cab. Instead, I quickly moved off the track where he could only follow me on foot. I watched as he started the truck up and raced off toward the highway, leaving me alone in the darkness.

  A number of stray dogs started barking eerily in the distance. This was not what I wanted. Going as fast as I could, I headed toward the highway. This whole area gave me the creeps; I wanted out of it and quick. I came to an abrupt halt when my path was blocked by a high barbed wire fence on the opposite side of the factory. It looked like I might have to make a long and unappealing detour around it, but mercifully I found a hole in the fence large enough for me and my pack to squeeze through. It was now completely dark, and as I walked toward the highway I wondered if Saddam was still around.

  I felt drained, and on reaching the road I hailed the first shared minibus that came along—hitching could wait for another day. I jumped in the back of the partially filled van, and as it pulled away, the gravity of what had just happened hit me. I felt desperately lonely and wanted to talk to someone very badly. But of course not being a Turkish speaker, I remained in silence and just thought things over again and again and again.

  As we approached the city, I said to the guy sitting next to me, “Hotel? Malatya?” He hadn’t a clue what I wanted, but a mid-twenties girl a couple of seats in front of me turned around and asked clearly if I spoke English. This was more like it. I explained that I was looking for a cheap hotel in the center of town. If there weren’t any cheap ones then to hell with my tight budget, I was going to spend whatever it cost tonight to get a good bed in a place I could get my head together.

  She explained that she and her friend would walk me to a hotel. I thanked her many times and began to relax. As we pulled into a thriving bus station, her friend reached over to the driver and paid the fare for all three of us. I didn’t argue. We got out of the van and now in the light I saw them properly for the first time.

  I was taken aback by the English speaker’s friend, whose eyes were almost identical to my ex-girlfriend’s. The similarity was uncanny and I’m sure it was the crazy incident in the field minutes earlier, but I desperately wanted to hold her. Of course I did nothing of the sort. I followed the girls like a lost puppy through the streets and began to think of them as my guardian angels.

  The English-speaking girl explained that they were taking me to a hotel that was both cheap and beautiful—it was also full. On we walked through crowded city streets to a second establishment called the Hotel Aygun. She explained that she was leaving now but her friend would do the negotiations for me inside. Farewells and thank-yous were exchanged, and I headed inside with her friend. How well her negotiation skills worked I don’t know, but she got me a room and it seemed a reasonable enough price at the time, although I can’t remember the cost. In the few words of English she spoke, she said, “Goodbye” and “Nice to meet you.” I really didn’t want her to go as I desperately wanted company but, since she didn’t speak any English, it wasn’t like I could ask her to come for a drink or anything, and what’s more, all I really wanted was a hug. I said, “Goodbye.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Hitchhiking to the Axis of Evil

  I made good initial progress after leaving Malatya, and had hoped to reach Iran by nightfall but had made the mistake of accepting a less-than-slow lift when hitching out of the Turkish town of Elazig. Here, I was picked up by a kindly old truck driver called Ilhan, whose vehicle was in a terrible state of repair and looked as old as he did. I stuck with him though, as Ilhan was traveling some 220 odd miles along my route to the small town of Horasan, which was only 130 miles from the Iranian border. We spent most of the day on the road but covered a fraction of the distance we should have, since the vehicle was overheating terribly with smoke billowing from the engine as we drove. The farther we traveled, the more fatigued the truck became. It was slow enough on flat straight roads, but when it got to hills, it really began to struggle and ascended these at next to walking pace. This took forever as there were numerous long twisting mountainous roads along our route and every time we approached one of these, we had to jump out and dowse the engine with water from a number of old plastic bottles in the cab.

  Whenever we passed a stream or roadside water fountain, it was my job to sink the bottles in the cool water, filling them up for use later on. This procedure, as well as our speed, ate away at our time, and it soon became apparent that I wasn’t going to get to Iran anytime tonight. Realistically, I would probably get there by midday tomorrow. I resigned myself to this and wasn’t really bothered; it didn’t matter to me whether it was today, tomorrow, or even next week that I arrived there, so long as I did arrive.

  The farther east we went, the better the landscape became, and we drove through some of the finest scenery I’d seen so far on my journey. Parts of it reminded me of the rugged Scottish Highlands, although there was a slightly different tinge to the color of the hills. Numerous nomadic people lived out here in this vast rolling landscape, as indicated by their tents visible from the road. Although I was hugely excited about being so close to my final destination of Iran, I was so impressed with the scenery in eastern Turkey that I flirted with the idea of stopping off for a few days and trying to befriend some nomads.

  We drove late into the night before pulling up next to a deserted gas station in the Turkish town of Erzurum. Ilhan took the bed at the back of the cab, whilst I tried to nestle down in front. This was none too easy since there was a huge gap between the seats with the gear stick protruding in the mi
ddle. To make matters worse, as soon as Ilhan’s head hit the pillow, he began to snore. Not your normal snoring, mind you, but strong enough to give the local seismologists a scare.

  My industrial-strength wax earplugs wouldn’t touch it, and being a very light sleeper, I knew I was in for a ghastly tormented night. I rolled about uncomfortably trying to sleep, but it was no good, and I decided to cut my losses and head outside with my sleeping bag. Even with the doors shut and several feet away from the truck, the snores resonated at a ridiculous level.

  Outside was a complete mess, strewn with piles of broken glass and trash, and illuminated by a big red light near the deserted garage, and a bright white light out on the road. Next to the garage was a small slope leading down to a patch of waste ground, which backed onto several houses. From these the vicious barking of dogs emanated.

  Looking down the slope, I surveyed the waste ground, which appeared slightly flatter and less carpeted with glass than the area immediately outside the truck. I decided it was home. Lying on my side to minimize the effect of the streetlight, I got as good a rest as could be expected under the circumstances—bugger all. After a while, though, I went into that state where you’re neither fully awake nor fully asleep, although you are getting some limited benefit. This semi-peaceful state shattered like a falling mirror in an instant. I awoke to the sound of dogs barking wildly and opened my eyes to a waking nightmare. To my horror, I saw through sleep-blurred eyes four bloodthirsty-looking dogs running out of the darkness at me, less than forty feet away. In a nanosecond, my adrenaline hit fever pitch and I scrambled madly to my feet, only to fall straight back down again since my legs were still in my sleeping bag. The dogs closed the gap, their barking now chillingly close.

  I got up again and ripped off the sleeping bag in a panicked flurry, throwing it behind me as I ran like a man possessed toward the slope and the safety of the truck. I powered up the hill, stumbling on the rocky surface and smashing my shin against a boulder in the process. Finally, I reached the top. I spun around, panting like my pursuers, and looked down at them whilst my heart thundered away in my chest. They were going crazy at the bottom of the slope, growling and barking away, but although they could have scaled it, they seemed to have reached an invisible boundary that they wouldn’t venture past. The waste ground was clearly their domain and not to be invaded. I backed off farther, not wanting to test this theory out, and not long afterward they did the same, disappearing into the darkness from which they had come.