Jamie Maslin - Iranian Rappers and Persian Porn

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 wanted to be rid of him and hit the highway unhindered.