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 wanted 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
