Phew! Argh! Eeew!

By Roni Askey-Doran

Phew! Argh! Eeew! Travel Tales I Never Told Mum is a fantastic collection of short travel tales so enthralling, so gripping, and so chilling to read that you’ll never leave home again.

When this intrepid young backpacker first embarked on her adventures around the globe, even her own wild imagination could not have conjured up some of the unforetold events that took place in her thirty-five years of travel.

Despite being hijacked in Bulgaria, nearly dying of Malaria in India, being imprisoned in Ecuador and almost blown to pieces in Turkey, Roni lived to tell her stories in the vivid and humorous style for which she is known. The only person she never told was her mother....

In the safety of your armchair, hang on for dear life as Roni takes you on a journey you will not soon forget.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roni Askey-Doran
• Release date: Oct 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9780648202004

Roni Askey-Doran

Tasmanian born Roni Askey-Doran has spent her life seeking adventure, happiness and inner peace. A gypsy at heart, Roni has a wonderful sense of humor which shines through in all her work. Filled with passion, powered by her desire to tell her stories using vivid lexiconic imagery, Roni loves to share her experiences. Roni has traveled through 46 countries over the past three decades. Despite her nomadic lifestyle, she is an accomplished chef, a talented wordsmith, an avid gardener, and her wandering feet dance to more than one beat. Roni currently resides in a bamboo shack on a remote beach in South America with three cats, two opossums, a non-venomous Granadilla snake, some tree frogs, a large green iguana and several species of tropical birds and butterflies. A large huntsman spider named Horacio resides in her bathroom. She’s addicted to bananas, loves to cook fresh seafood with coconuts, is passionate about her tropical garden, and makes her own chocolate.

Book preview

Phew! Argh! Eeew!

Travel Tales I Never Told Mum

Roni Askey-Doran

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Phew! Argh! Eeew!

Travel Tales I Never Told Mum

First published by Unicorn Press, April 2016

Copyright © Roni Askey-Doran 2016

The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Smashwords Edition

ISBN-13: 978-0-9757600-4-8

ISBN-10: 0-6482020-0-3

Non-fiction – Travel, Short Stories, Anthology

*Some names have been changed to protect the guilty.

For Mum

Indonesia ~ Holy Smoking Backpacks

Syria ~ Thelma And Louise

India ~ Are You Sure It’s Just A Cold?

Turkey ~ Three Steps To Heaven

Thailand ~ And You Are ... ?

Bulgaria ~ Baffling Border Games

Azerbaijan ~ The Girl In Baku

Ecuador ~ Heaven To The Left, Hell To The Right

Australia ~ Wee McGregor, Batman And Monty Python

Borneo ~ The Tampon King

Indonesia ~ Monkey Forest Barber Shop

Turkey ~ Indianish Clones and The Hittite Troll

Ukraine ~ Vladmir Verses Vodka

England ~ Get Dressed, We’re Going To Church

Greece ~ The Bookmark

Cambodia ~ Wat Butterfly

India ~ The Elephant Walk

Kurdistan ~ Bombs Away

Indonesia ~ On The Right Path

Morocco ~ Moroccan Madness

Ecuador ~ It Only Takes One

Thailand ~ Joint Journey

England ~ Rockin’ Noodles

Israel ~ The Hour Long Second

India ~ Monsoon Season

Turkey ~ Tea With A Terrorist

Malaysia ~ Bushwhacked

Mexico ~ The Taxi To Hell

Vietnam ~ Lost Property

Indonesia ~ The Witch Doctor

Syria ~ Taken Hostage

Nepal ~ Six Inches To The Right

Laos ~ Bridge Over Troubled Motorbike

Turkey ~ Pasaport! Pasaport!

Cambodia ~ Braving Bokor

Phew! Argh! Eeew!

Travel Tales I Never Told Mum

Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

~ Dad

Indonesia

Holy Smoking Backpacks!

The bumpy winding road out of Kuta Beach was jammed with traffic. Tiny men on rickety bicycles wobbled along the jagged edges of tarmac carrying huge bales of fresh animal feed. Locals trundled up and down either side of the street balancing their precious cargo on their heads. One wizened old man had a heavy wooden double bed frame teetering precariously on his bare skull as he trotted down the street. A tiny old lady, not four feet tall, carried an enormous burlap bag taller than herself, balancing the load on her head. Scruffy dogs with weeping open wounds, stray goats, dirty chickens and bald ducks wandered up and down the side of the road. Jamu women sold traditional Javanese tonics and potions along the way. 

Whining scooters with mum, dad and all five children squeezed on board weaved in and out of oncoming cars, trucks, buses and bemos (minivans). Garishly decorated trucks loaded to the clouds with rice, vegetables or wooden crates veered willy-nilly up and down the road. Pickups crammed with people bounced along, their human cargo dangling loose limbs over the sides. Two dozen folk singers and dancers in colorful garb, carrying myriad gamelan instruments, jolted down the tarmac on the back of a utility vehicle, on their way to some kind of ceremony. Overstuffed bemos carried people gripping live chickens and goats, careening in either direction, at times just missing each other in passing. The drivers beeped and shouted all the way, spewing a tangle of disgruntled passengers out the door at each stop. Each vehicle traveled at vastly different speeds to all the others, negotiating the jam-packed thoroughfare at its own pace. In roadside irrigation canals, people bathed and squatted naked to perform their daily ablutions. Shuddering at the pitiful plight of these poor people without access to clean water and plumbing, I shut my eyes and hoped we made it to Ubud, in the heart of Bali, alive. 

As the incessant madness of Kuta Beach subsided, and the traffic thinned out, I gazed out the window at the landscape. Terraced rice paddies dominated sweeping hills while rivers and irrigation streams sliced though the district, creating the illusion of a luscious green checkerboard. The warm air was filled with singing birds and the soothing sounds of trickling water. Nestled amongst emerald green rice paddies and steep ravines in the stunning central Balinese foothills twenty-five kilometers north of Denpasar, Ubud promised Michelle and I a unique perspective of Bali. 

Back then, Ubud was a prospering tourist resort and a flourishing center for the arts. The enchanting village gradually evolved into a major cultural center as resident musicians developed gamelan orchestras, painters and authors created fine works of art and lontar experts carved statues and ornaments onto the temples in the hills around Ubud. The idyllic village soon became a focal point for many foreign artists, anthropologists and avant-garde world travelers who passed through. The unruffled calmness of Ubud soothed away our Balinese blues while the extraordinary beauty of the surrounding hills inspired me to write.

Michelle and I checked into the Made Titib House and immediately were made to feel at home. The locals in Ubud were wonderfully generous and charming. Our newfound friend Dewi took us to see the Legong Dance at the palace that night. We spent days enjoying Ubud’s rich culture of dance, music, painting and sculpture. Each night we attended the classical dance dramas of Ramayana and Mahabarata, watched a shadow puppet performance, or listened to excellent gamelan music. The night markets were alive with late night diners and we gorged on sumptuous Indonesian fare, Gulai and Nasi Goreng, surrounded by locals and tourists all chattering and laughing at once. We both loved Ubud, a lush little village alive with art.

One night, we met Olivia at a performance of the Kechek and Kre Dance. She seemed nice enough, and we toured the area together. Now a trio, we sauntered through the Puri Saren Palace with its maze of compounds and elaborately carved doorways. We strolled around the superbly chiseled Pura Saraswati Temple behind the lotus pond near the Puri Saraswati Palace. We admired the delightful sculptures of the Pura Puseh temple, and roamed around the Puri Lukisan Museum gazing at paintings depicting the Balinese agrarian cycle and ornate sculptures, stopping to relax in the peaceful garden. We went to the Seniwati Gallery for its women’s art and the gallery of I Gusti Nyoman Lempad, to see the delicate pen and ink drawings of Ubud’s most famous artist. Intricate paintings, extraordinary carvings, superb weaving and decorations made for shrines. 

One night, Olivia said she wanted to hike around the surrounding highlands. Michelle and I joined her and we spent a week hiking around the picturesque hills and gorges. On the way to Payangan, we stopped at the Campuan Bridge to see the eighth century Pura Gunung Lebah Temple before striding into the village with its extraordinary rice terraces stepping down toward the Ayung River below. We huffed and puffed up a long flight of steps to Penestanan Village to observe the delicate works of local painters and bead-workers before trudging through the rice paddies to see spectacular views of distant volcanoes. After playing with monkeys in the dense bamboo forest, we tried to lose ourselves on a small, unpaved track between rows of little cottages, then up to the Sayan Ridge where we were privileged to witness a dramatic view of the Ayung River. Further up the road, we followed a long winding path down to the wide flowing river where we splashed and played in refreshing cool water, wiling away the peaceful afternoon under the hot sun, dozing on lush river banks. Michelle and Olivia instantly became the best of friends. At times, I found Olivia whiny and complaining and her grating accent put my teeth on edge. Easy-going Michelle’s clear clipped tongue didn’t bother me. My broad twang and bizarre sense of humor added a touch of weirdness to our international group. Despite Olivia’s annoying idiosyncrasies, I found some patience and got over myself. We stuck together and hiked. 

We wandered through verdant rice fields and coconut groves, through the villages of Petulu, Tegallalang and Pujung to the dramatic sculpted rice terraces of Sebatu, and cooled off in the deliciously fresh pools of the Holy Spring at Sebatu. On our last day of hiking, we planned to walk to the moon. The Moon of Pejeng lies across spectacularly hilly country, past the sites of several ancient palaces and temples. We hauled our sore legs up hill and over dale, across two lush steep gorges into Pejeng to visit the museum and a temple containing a prehistoric bronze drum known as the Moon of Pejeng. That evening, Michelle departed to catch her flight back to London the following day. Olivia and I stayed together to experience more of Bali’s wonderous offerings. 

The upcoming festival of rituals in Bugbug looked like an interesting option. Just a little north of Candidasa, Bugbug was a prosperous rice growing and fishing village. On the full moon of the first Balinese month, the ritual worship of the village gods takes place in the Pura Desa Temple. The traditional ceremony lasts for several days. Spectacular dances are performed by teenage boys in costumes of white and gold-threaded cloth, adorned with elaborate headdress and keris, the traditional weapon. Three orchestras playing bamboo xylophones, drums and cymbals, and the sacred bronze selunding simultaneously accompanied the dancers along with the gambang ensemble. Fascinated by history and culture, we set out to sample some of the true local flavors. 

As the rattling old bus pulled out of Ubud in the direction of Klungkung, we still hadn’t decided whether to stop there to see the Palace of the God of Love and the exquisitely painted ceilings of Kerta Gosa and Bale Kambang or go straight on to Candidasa and head up to Bugbug. The usual motley collection of vehicles littered the road. There are parts of Bali that seem to have a mellow liquid atmosphere while other parts of the island feel frenzied and energetic. All roads were categorized in the frantic section. Tossing a coin between visiting the bright Klungkung Market in full swing with its vast range of local delights and staying on the bus all the way to the dramatic black sand beaches at Candidasa, Olivia and I debated back and forth. 

The highway snaked through lush jungle, rice paddies and endless coconut groves. The bus stopped every few minutes to pick up passengers. Just when we thought not one more person could possibly fit through the door, the bus would stop and someone else would squeeze inside, jammed between old ladies carrying chickens and men with bundles of reeds strapped to their backs. The crowded local bus lumbered slowly up steep hills and then swooped recklessly down the other side. My nose buried in a guidebook, I read about the two small temples at Candidasa, one for Siwa and the other for Hariti, that overlook a beautiful palm-fringed lagoon by the beach. Olivia whined about the speed. I read about the sites of Klungkung and tried to make up my mind. The festival in Bugbug would be grand, but did I want to travel any further with Olivia? Just outside a little village near Giyanyar, a man jumped onto the bus holding a small tin of petrol with no lid on it. An unlit cigarette dangled from the left corner of his mouth. Olivia flipped out. 

He’s going to smoke! He can’t do that! It’s dangerous!

As the bus rumbled through the fertile district of Banjar Angkan, Olivia and I argued about whether or not to stay on the bus. I couldn’t see the problem. I’d spent months traveling in local Indonesian buses, people climbed onto vehicles with all kinds of crazy, weird and wonderful things. We’d been traveling less than an hour. Candidasa was another hour away. On the other hand, Klungkung was only fifteen or twenty minutes down the road. I began thinking I could ditch her there and continue on at my own pace. 

She nagged me to death. I surrendered. There is nothing worse than struggling to enjoy a holiday in paradise when someone is twisting your ears into knots. I reluctantly conceded, and apologetically asked the driver to stop. He demanded the full fare to Klungkung. I knew he was trying to rip us off. Sick of being harangued, I gave him the money. The difference was less than one dollar, and the last thing my mental health needed was another dispute over nothing. 

We hauled our packs from the aisle and dropped them onto the hot dusty road. A puff of aromatic exhaust fumes blew into my face as the bus rolled down the long straight road sans two foreign tourists. In an irrigation canal behind us, a local farmer was taking a dump. Uninspired to ask him how far the next town was, I threw my backpack on the side of the road and plopped down on top of it. 

Our unscheduled stop bothered me. Everything about Olivia annoyed me. If I had to spend another minute with this pedantic whining tourist, I would throttle her. She had complained about every single detail of every little thing. We had done some incredible stuff, seen spectacular sights and met amazing people. We’d eaten the world’s best food, we had some magical experiences, and none of it was good enough for her. She was standing on the side of the road, looking forlornly down at her too-heavy rucksack and moaning about what we would do next. That was the last straw. I erupted. 

In a volcanic display of verbal fireworks that could easily have equaled Bali’s revered holy mountain and active volcano, the lofty Gunung Agung, I let her have it. Tearing shreds from her limb by limb, I shouted lengthy colorful phrases spiced with hot fury and flaming language, that she had no business traveling around the world, that she should have stayed home with her first world comforts, her cable television, her junk food outlets, and her mother. As my second sentence—something about her endless list of inconsequential grievances—began bursting from my lips in a spurt of steaming rage, frothy volcanic lava and fiery rhetoric, the bus blew up. 

Spinning around at the sound of the explosion, I stared in horror at the smoking bus we had been sitting on a few minutes earlier. The front of the vehicle was engulfed in flames. I can only assume the man with the open petrol can had lit up his cigarette. Within seconds, a dozen bus windows popped open and screaming passengers flung themselves out onto the road, rolling into the irrigation ditches on either side. Shocked, Olivia and I stood gawking at the burning bus with our mouths agape. In a matter of minutes, the road teemed with people who had come running from the jungle and nearby farms. As I bandaged burns and helped locals carry buckets of water from a nearby well, I could have bitten off my tongue. After several hours, rescue services had transported the wounded to hospital and most of the carnage had been cleared. Olivia and I climbed onto different buses and went our separate ways, but not before I apologized and thanked her for inadvertently saving my life.

Syria

Thelma and Louise

As we trudged up the hill toward the Aleppo Citadel, I had that eerie feeling you get when you know someone is watching you, even though you can’t see them yet. 

I can feel it too, said Louise, squinting toward the ancient souqs to see if she could spot our unseen observer.

I shivered. The short hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I looked around, but couldn’t see anyone. The crowd was made up mostly of men in white robes. They all stared at us, two foreign women dressed in jeans and modest blouses. Everyone seemed to behave equally strangely. 

At first, I didn’t notice the middle-aged man in the white robe and black keffiyeh. He looked like everyone else sitting around sipping tea in the plaza near the souqs. As we explored the citadel, the creepy feeling didn’t go away. We wandered around in the court, exploring the Byzantine cisterns and a few vaulted dungeons. We walked around the ramparts and took in the views of Aleppo spread out around us. 

It’s still there, I told Louise, taking in my surroundings with an eagle eye. Still, I couldn’t spot what was making me uncomfortable.

Local and international tourists filed through the ruined fortress. Robed men sat in cafes and sipped traditional mint tea, smoking and chatting loudly. Nothing seemed out of order. 

After living in the Middle East for a while, I knew that men followed women all the time. Usually, they never spoke or came close. They just followed and stood around ogling, sometimes muttering obscenities as women passed by. From time to time, violent incidents were reported. Often, women took the blame for these attacks and many were forced to confess to being ‘too open’ in their demeanor. They were punished. The men got off scott-free. Instinctively, I was certain someone had followed us, but I couldn’t see who it was. 

I think we’re being followed around Aleppo, I said, simultaneously nervous and angry.

Keep your eyes and ears open, Louise said, ready to do battle if necessary. I think I was followed back to our hotel from the souqs yesterday.

When I first arrived in Damascus, I wasn’t entirely ignorant of the Muslim way of life. Intrigued by the fascinating region, its turbulent history, arid landscape, and its wonderful mix of peoples, I had read up on Syria to learn more. Conscious of being constantly observed, I always did my best to respect and comply with local customs and traditions. I always wore long sleeved shirts with high necks, and long dresses and pants. The only visible skin I ever displayed was on my face and hands. Even though I did not wear the hijab, I kept my hair covered with scarves on holy days and I didn’t look at men’s faces in the streets. In fact, I avoided looking directly at Syrian men altogether. At times, this simply wasn’t enough. 

I loved Syria, and I loved the Syrians. I loved the country and the people and the history and the culture. I loved the sights and the sounds and the smells. I loved the ruins and the landscape with its yellow wattle trees and tall gums and scrubby savannah. I loved that it looked a lot like Australia, but wasn’t. 

However, I did not love the prospect of being harassed by scores of ignorant, depraved perverts every time I stepped out my front door alone. It made me feel paranoid about everyone who milled around the cobbled streets. It imparted too many negative feelings about what should have been a positive experience; living in Syria for a short part of my life. There were days the constant sexual harassment got to breaking point, where I was one lewd remark short of donning a black abaya. Still, I did my best to ignore the bad side of this life I had chosen, and tried to get on with the good part. 

During the school break Louise and I had traveled by bus up to Aleppo to visit the city and see our newest friends, Dayyan and Aiysha, whom we had met at a party in Damascus. The sandstone city of Aleppo was once a key town on the trade routes, including the Silk Road, for thousands of years. The ancient souqs, khans, medreses, courtyards and caravanserais were still in full use when we were there. The history and architecture was incredible. The city was absolutely beautiful. Our friends received us with warmth and generosity. 

During our ten-day stay in the centre of the ancient town, Louise and I wandered around the Ayyubid Palace and strolled through the magnificent gateway before visiting the Mosque of Abraham and the hamam (traditional steam baths) nearby. We ambled around the Umayyad Mosque through a stone paved court with its ornate fountain situated right in the centre. 

After two days of touring around the city, I still had the heeby geebies. I can feel someone there, I said again, sounding like a broken record. 

Aleppo is said to be the Syrian city that leaves the profoundest impression upon its visitors. Never was a spoken word so true. As we came out into the daylight after strolling around the twelve winding kilometers of lanes and alleys in the Covered Souqs, I saw the white-robed man again. I also recalled seeing him on the street as we walked toward the citadel and he had been at the citadel as well. 

Have you seen that guy before? I asked Louise, discreetly pointing him out. 

I don’t know. Maybe, she replied, not sure. 

It was that worn old cliché; they all looked the same. She looked hard at him, taking in his features. He slunk away, around a nearby corner and down a narrow alley in the ancient labyrinthine souqs, out of sight. I hadn’t spotted him inside the market, but he had been there. I felt his ominous presence. A chill of fear traveled down my spine. He was stalking us. Unnerved, we walked around a different corner, and marched straight back to our hotel. As we passed the cross street, he was there, just ahead, leering at us from a nearby juice stand. Once again, I pointed him out to Louise. 

It’s him, it’s the same guy, I muttered, slowing down.

Don’t look, just keep going, whispered Louise. Turning to me with a big smile, she looped her arm in mine. Behave normally. Just pretend we haven’t seen him.

To look at the guy, you wouldn’t think he was a pervert. He stood tall and proud in a commanding way. There was an elegant aura about him in the way he moved and stood. He didn’t seem to be the stalker-type. He seemed affluent. He was a little overweight, but only slightly, and his hands and face were dark. He wore expensive-looking Gucci shoes and a gold Rolex watch; possibly fake, It was hard to tell at a glance. On the third day of stalking us, his feline-like head was wrapped in a neat black and white keffiyeh and secured with an akkal, the typical Arab headdress. His long white dishdash was spotless. He looked well groomed. The disguise was completely inconspicuous. As we passed him in the street, I smelled the soap on his skin. We walked back to the hotel, both knowing he was there, not far behind us, but we didn’t look around. Louise noticed he had gold rings on his fingers. His black eyes pierced holes into our backs as we forced ourselves to walk casually down the street.

Neither of us wanted to change hotels. We liked our airy cavernous rooms with huge bay windows, we loved the antique bathroom fittings, adored the wide flowing marble staircase, and reveled in the ornate lobby. The manager was indifferent when we told him we’d been followed. 

What can I do? he said, throwing his hands in the air with a shrug. It wasn’t his problem. After some lengthy and frustrating discussion, he eventually assured us he would allow no strange men up to our rooms. In fact, he was adamant, with his brow deeply furrowed, that no men were permitted to climb the stairs to our rooms as long as we stayed under his roof.

Resolute, we decided to stay where we were. A stalker wasn’t going to scare us off. Besides, we reasoned, if we moved, he would probably find us again anyway. Our visits to Dayyan and Aiysha’s house for dinner almost every night would reveal our new location. The police were uninterested in our plight. 

What do you expect? they told us, laughing, making lewd faces at each other. You are foreigners! You foreign women are all the same!

Louise wanted to choke them and bang their heads against the stone walls; maybe the lack of oxygen to their brains would increase their IQs. The constant sexual harassment from men on the streets, police, merchants, taxi drivers, and now this stalker, was degrading and frustrating, humiliating, and mentally and physically exhausting.

Our stalker stayed with us for eight days. We concentrated on not freaking out. Our first mission each morning was to lose him in the crowd. Whenever we left the hotel, he was there waiting for us. Now that we had seen him, and he knew that we’d seen him, he made no effort to hide himself. Most days, he sat in the driver’s seat of a blue BMW across from the hotel. Each morning, as we came out for breakfast, he gestured for us to get in the car. 

One day, in halting English, he said he could give us a lift to wherever we were going. When we ignored him and rounded a corner, he got out of his car and followed us down the road. We ran away, and lost him in the crowds crossing the street toward the souqs, then doubled back through a little side street and spent a peaceful morning in the museum. When we returned to our hotel, he was standing outside, near the door. 

He mumbled something as we passed.

What did you say? demanded Louise in his native tongue. Shame on you! How dare you follow us! Her Arabic was perfect, she had understood every word.

Saying nothing, he walked away, waving a hand back at us, laughing as he strode down the street as if nothing had happened.

What did he say? I asked, a little curious, but not sure I really wanted to know.

Oh, nothing especially bad, she said, exasperated. Just that we are both beautiful. Still, it’s sexual harassment! We don’t need it.

Over the next few days, our stalker followed us to restaurants and cafés, on what were meant to be relaxing walks around the fine city, to the gates of fine arts museums, to the bank where we changed money, and even to the bus station when we went to book our tickets back to Damascus. When we saw him outside Dayyan’s house one night, just as we arrived for a party, we reported it to our friends. Several men ran out to the street looking for the stalker. They were armed with baseball bats, thinking to beat the life out of him, but he was gone. 

Eventually, Louise and I became fed up. Dayyan couldn’t help any more than he already had; he worked long hours and didn’t have time to chase around town for some anonymous creep who hadn’t physically hurt us. Aiysha was sympathetic, but also felt powerless to assist. The authorities didn’t want to know. We decided to take matters into our own hands. We had to do something to make him go away, and to put his potentially dangerous game at an end, so we made a plan. 

The following morning, on the last day of our holiday, we strolled out the door of our hotel in search of breakfast, as usual. We had plans to travel back to Damascus later that afternoon, but still had to get through one more day in Aleppo with the threat of this persistent, still unpredictable stalker hanging over our heads. 

As expected, our robed nemesis was waiting for us. Arms linked for moral support and emotional strength as we strode towards his car, Louise and I looked at each other. Now, we were committed to the plan. We had to stop this man, not only from stalking and scaring us, but also from doing the same to other, more vulnerable, women. There is nothing quite so frightening as having a strange man follow you around a city you’re not familiar with. Who knows what he could do. Firm in our resolve, we stepped out into the street. As usual, he gestured at us to come over to his car. As usual, we looked the other way, and walked around the corner. Louise counted to three and we heard the car door slam. Then, another count to five. Predictably, he was right behind us. Instead of running down the street and milling in the crowds, we stopped at a juice bar. In our experience, Syria’s juice bars were among the world’s best and not to be missed. Louise and I each ordered a large freshly squeezed tropical fruit juice. Our living nightmare walked into the shop and ordered a fresh orange juice. My heart beat faster as I studied the floor and pretended not to see him. He scared me. His proximity made me want to run away screaming. Before my next heartbeat, I wasn’t sure if I could go through with it. Standing two metres away from the man who had made my life hell for the last week gave me the creeps. He turned and smiled as we sipped the refreshing cool liquid. Louise looked him in the eye. She was counting on him being as predictable as the sunrise each morning. The success of our plan depended on it. 

What do you want? she asked him in Arabic. 

I want to show you my city, he replied.

We’ve seen it, she retorted sarcastically. You know that. You have watched us walk around it.

Not all of it, he retorted playfully, as if this were a great joke.

What can you show us that we haven’t already seen? she asked, eyes narrowed. 

Her Arabic was impeccable. He was impressed. I couldn’t believe she was so calm. I wanted to flee. For the first time in my life, I found the buckles on my hand-made leather sandals absolutely fascinating. Louise turned to look at me. I saw her smiling gently in my peripheral vision. I inhaled deeply and looked up, into her eyes. She looked surprisingly serene. Her relaxed expression calmed some of my jumping nerves. I took another sip of my drink, and avoided his piercing gaze.

I can assure you, my dear, that Aleppo is filled with mysterious secrets, he replied with a toothy smile. 

This was her cue. Smirking, she studied his face for a moment. Her expression gradually changed from hardened cynic to softened sightseer. Watching her, I imagined Louise winning an Oscar for this brilliant performance. He smiled, lust flashing in his eyes. The juice bar owner polished the same spot on his shining marble bench for a full five minutes, peeping over neat piles of fresh fruit to satisfy his curiosity. I held my breath. Our fate was in her hands. If she decided to go ahead from here, we would have to be really careful. Things could easily go bad. We couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. Whatever happened, I trusted her. 

Okay, she said, nodding in acquiescence. Show us your city. 

He was delighted. His name was Iqrit. Louise gave him fake names. I was so terrified that day, I don’t recall what they were. 

Where would you like to go first? he asked.

I don’t know, she replied, smiling. You’re the guide now. What would you like to show us?

We finished our delicious juice and handed the glasses back to the grinning vendor. With a sly smile, Iqrit paid for all of our drinks. Then, we walked with him back to his car. Louise sat in the front passenger seat and I climbed nervously into the back seat. My heart pounded so hard, I could barely think.

As we pulled into the traffic, he explained to Louise that he was a merchant and that he had wanted to speak to us since the day he first saw us at the citadel. He unashamedly admitted to following us all over the city. He said he was just looking for the chance to talk to us. Of course, he hadn’t been expecting us to send a mob of thugs out of our friend’s house to beat him up with baseball bats. He just got away in time, he told her. Thrilled with our apparent surrender, he said he was interested in doing some trading in Europe but didn’t know anything about Europeans. He had many questions. Except that he was targeting an Australian and a North American. 

He chatted with Louise in the front, delighted she spoke fluent Arabic, and ignored me in the back. She translated from time to time and threw a few sardonic comments of her own into the narrative. If I hadn’t been so nervous, I would have laughed my head off. She told him the most outrageous lies. From our names to where we were from, what we did and who we were. Lascivious Iqrit soaked it all up like a dry sponge plunged into a bucket of water.

As we neared the edge of the inner city, Louise pointed at Lake al-Assad on her map. 

We’ve been wanting to visit this part of the country, but haven’t yet had the chance. she told him, behaving coyly. 

If I didn’t know her better, I might assume that he had somehow charmed the knickers off her. He pawed at her legs as he drove. She shrugged him off, insisting he concentrate on driving. 

We have all day to explore the lake,