BARB’S BAZAAR STORY (PART 1)
It is late afternoon on the third day of my package tour – my first real holiday in two years. Our tour bus winds its way slowly through the throngs of people in the heart of the city, finally pulling up and parking on the fringe of the grand bazaar.
Along with the others I step off the bus into the stifling heat of the day. The contrast between the AC in the bus and the heat of the day outside takes my breath away. As I begin to amble along the shops and stalls, the perspiration starts to break out on my face and scalp, and my light flower-print dress starts to cling to my body. Reflexively I unbutton the top two front buttons.
I soon become totally absorbed in my shopping, reveling in the variety and attractiveness of the many exotic goods available for purchase. I examine fabrics, jewelry, leather hand bags and shoes, picking out those that catch my eye and holding them up to the light for closer inspection. So absorbed am I, that I fail to notice the rest of the tour group drifting off in another direction.
I move along from stall to stall, until I suddenly hear a commotion behind me. Turning and looking back, I see a short dark man with a flowing mustache standing in front of the stall I just left. He is jabbering loudly in the local language, waving his arms energetically and pointing in my direction. He is surrounded by others, who turn and look directly at me. A moment later two policemen arrive, listen patiently to his frenetic babbling, and then stride purposely toward me.
Drawing up alongside me, the policemen startle me by grabbing my arm. One of them starts saying something to me, but I don’t understand a word of it. The other takes my bag from me, and looks inside, then produces a pair of handcuffs. It is now pretty obvious that I am about to be arrested. As my arms are pinned behind my back and the cuffs snapped on to my wrists, I began to protest loudly and call for help, but my tour group is gone. I am alone in the crowded bazaar, in trouble, with no friendly faces in sight.
With a shove on my back to get me going, my policemen march me off through the crowd, nudging me along every time I stop to protest. Swarms of people crowd around us; most look at me rather menacingly. It’s senseless to resist, I decide. I will just have to go along to wherever they are taking me, and hope there is someone there who speaks English.
Before long we arrive at low rather ominous-looking building, with iron bars affixed to its windows – the local constabulary headquarters, I presume. I am taken inside and hustled up to a desk with a bored-looking man standing behind it. “I am an American,” I blurt out, “there has been a dreadful mistake. I am with a tour group. I have done nothing wrong!”
The man behind the desk, swarthy with an oversized mustache and ill-fitting uniform, eyes me curiously, grunts, and points to a nearby doorway. Through the door I am quickly hustled, panic welling up inside me. What is happening, doesn’t anyone here speak English?
I am propelled roughly down a flight of stairs, slipping and stumbling in my wedge-heeled sandals on the worn and crooked steps. In the space below is a large cell, with a small window on the back wall. The cell door swings open and I am shoved inside. The door swings shut with a loud metallic clang. They depart without a word, leaving me standing – alone, scared, and sweating profusely in the oppressive heat.
Hours go by. I pace back and forth, tire after a while, and sit down on the floor. Pulling my knees up under my chin, I shudder uncontrollably and begin to cry, the tears streaming down my face. Surely the tour group has noticed my absence by now. Why doesn’t someone come for me? But nothing happens. Sweltering, I unbutton another button on the front of my dress and attempt to fan myself with my hand.
Slowly the light from the small window high on the back wall of my cell begins to fade; the day is waning; the night falls. I am now terribly hungry in addition to being miserable from the heat, and feeling increasingly apprehensive. Still more hours go by. It must be the middle of the night when I finally hear someone coming.
Two policemen descend the stairs, followed by a tall and rather homely man in an officer’s uniform. The first two men open the cell door, step inside drag me brusquely to my feet, and pull me outside.
I am escorted down a side corridor to a small room, harshly lit by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. In the center of the room stands a wooden table, and one chair. I am pushed down on to the chair, my wrists uncuffed, and then re-cuffed behind me to the back of the chair so that I cannot stand or move.
The officer sets himself on the edge of the desk, looks at me gravely and begins to speak in heavily accented but passable English. My shoulder bag rests on the table next to him. He holds my passport in his hand.
“We have questions,” he intones, “What is your name?”
“I am Barbara…Barbara Moore …. just as it says in my passport,” I reply, adding, “I am an American citizen, and I have rights! This is an outrage!”
Unruffled by my outburst he calmly continues, “You are 30 years old, and you entered the country 3 days ago, correct?” And then without waiting for a response, he adds, reading from my passport, “brown hair and eyes, five feet seven inches in height, 128 pounds.”
“You know all that,” I say in frustration, “I have done nothing wrong…this is all a mistake … just let me go, please!”
“Not so fast,” he retorts, “You are under arrest, accused of stealing in the bazaar. This is a serious offense in this country. Theft is not tolerated, even by foreign visitors”.
“But I have stolen nothing,” I say, anger rising in my voice.
“We have evidence,” he responds, rising from the desk, “The merchant who owns the stall saw you slip a gold bracelet in your bag. And here we have your bag. Look what is inside.”
He reaches in my bag and produces a shiny gold bracelet, a look of triumph on his face.
“I don’t know how that got there, I stammer” a sinking feeling in my gut.
“You must realize Ms. Moore, that you are in very serious trouble,” he says with a stern look on his face, “My best advice to you, right now, is to cooperate and confess in the hope that the judge will go easy on you. Please take my advice, to do otherwise is folly!”
“No, no … I am innocent, I will not confess to something I did not do,” I shout hysterically and try to rise from the chair, but am caught up short by my hands cuffed to its back, and am forced to continue sitting.
“Very well,” he says leaning forward and slowly unbuttoning the remaining buttons on the front of my dress down, opening it down to the little fashion belt at my wait. Deftly, he then tugs my dress down off my shoulders, until it falls in folds on my lap and bunches around my cuffed wrists.
“What are you doing?” I exclaim, “You have no right to do that!”
Helplessly I watch as he reaches to get something out of a drawer at the back of the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the other two policemen ogling the swell of my heaving breasts against the confines of my light blue demi bra.
Turning back toward me, he leans forward again, holding in one hand what look like a pair of long-nose pliers, which he opens and closes a couple of times while watching my reaction. I stare at him and the pliers in disbelief, not knowing what to say or do.
Without saying a word, he reaches out with his free hand and lowers the right strap of my bra, which falls down along my arm. Then he does the same with the other.
My face is red. I am stricken with panic, as he tugs at at the right cup until my thick tumescent nipple appears just above the fabric's edge. The two policemen come up behind me and hold my shoulders tight against the back of the chair.
Applying the tongs of his pliers to my nipple’s tender crinkled tip, he squeezes hard and twists and turns. I scream in pain, the sound of my yelp reverberating off the walls.
“Stop, stop…stop this instant!” I yell at him as he twists again and pulls. A stab of pain shoots through me again; My God, it hurts like hell. I howl, sob, and begin to blubber.
“Confess!” Do so now, or else!” he hisses as he bares my other breast. Reaching behind himself again, he produces a long wicked-looking metal needle.
“Oh, no!” I gasp, “Please, please, don’t”
He applies his pliers again, this time to my other nipple, squeezing it hard and stretching it out. I shriek at the top of my lungs, and stare wide-eyed as the sharp point of the needle is pressed against the circle of pink flesh at the base of my outstretched nipple.
As he hesitates and looks me straight in the eye, I make a quick decision.
“No, for god’s sake, no!” I plead, tears welling in my eyes. “Alright, I confess. I didn’t do it, but I confess anyway; anything to stop this. You said they will be lenient, if I confess, right?”
He laughs and snorts, “You stupid Americans are so soft!”
And to his men, he growls, “Take her upstairs to see the judge.”
My wrists are uncuffed, and I am pulled to my feet. I rub my wrists, then pull up the straps on my demi bra, and gingerly adjust the cups to cover my aching breasts.
My arms are then pinned behind me and the cuffs re-applied. I am given no time to pull up my dress, which now hangs precariously from my hips as I ascend the stairs to the floor above.
Moments later I stand before a high podium, a white-haired elder in some kind of judicial headgear looking contemptuously down on me. Words are exchanged between the judge and the officer; words that are incomprehensible to me, except for my name. When the exchange is over, I look imploringly at the officer.
“Well?” I ask, “What did he say?”
“You are getting off light, just as I said you would,” he replies, “He has sentenced you to a public flogging ….forty lashes….and then quick deportation from the country. Your sentence will be carried out at noon today … in the main square. Consider yourself fortunate, Ms. Moore, the usual sentence for thievery is to have your hand cut off, or in some cases death by beheading or hanging.
Turning to the two waiting policemen, he orders, “Take her down to her cell, give her some breakfast, and leave her there until it’s time…
TO BE CONTINUED
It is late afternoon on the third day of my package tour – my first real holiday in two years. Our tour bus winds its way slowly through the throngs of people in the heart of the city, finally pulling up and parking on the fringe of the grand bazaar.
Along with the others I step off the bus into the stifling heat of the day. The contrast between the AC in the bus and the heat of the day outside takes my breath away. As I begin to amble along the shops and stalls, the perspiration starts to break out on my face and scalp, and my light flower-print dress starts to cling to my body. Reflexively I unbutton the top two front buttons.
I soon become totally absorbed in my shopping, reveling in the variety and attractiveness of the many exotic goods available for purchase. I examine fabrics, jewelry, leather hand bags and shoes, picking out those that catch my eye and holding them up to the light for closer inspection. So absorbed am I, that I fail to notice the rest of the tour group drifting off in another direction.
I move along from stall to stall, until I suddenly hear a commotion behind me. Turning and looking back, I see a short dark man with a flowing mustache standing in front of the stall I just left. He is jabbering loudly in the local language, waving his arms energetically and pointing in my direction. He is surrounded by others, who turn and look directly at me. A moment later two policemen arrive, listen patiently to his frenetic babbling, and then stride purposely toward me.
Drawing up alongside me, the policemen startle me by grabbing my arm. One of them starts saying something to me, but I don’t understand a word of it. The other takes my bag from me, and looks inside, then produces a pair of handcuffs. It is now pretty obvious that I am about to be arrested. As my arms are pinned behind my back and the cuffs snapped on to my wrists, I began to protest loudly and call for help, but my tour group is gone. I am alone in the crowded bazaar, in trouble, with no friendly faces in sight.
With a shove on my back to get me going, my policemen march me off through the crowd, nudging me along every time I stop to protest. Swarms of people crowd around us; most look at me rather menacingly. It’s senseless to resist, I decide. I will just have to go along to wherever they are taking me, and hope there is someone there who speaks English.
Before long we arrive at low rather ominous-looking building, with iron bars affixed to its windows – the local constabulary headquarters, I presume. I am taken inside and hustled up to a desk with a bored-looking man standing behind it. “I am an American,” I blurt out, “there has been a dreadful mistake. I am with a tour group. I have done nothing wrong!”
The man behind the desk, swarthy with an oversized mustache and ill-fitting uniform, eyes me curiously, grunts, and points to a nearby doorway. Through the door I am quickly hustled, panic welling up inside me. What is happening, doesn’t anyone here speak English?
I am propelled roughly down a flight of stairs, slipping and stumbling in my wedge-heeled sandals on the worn and crooked steps. In the space below is a large cell, with a small window on the back wall. The cell door swings open and I am shoved inside. The door swings shut with a loud metallic clang. They depart without a word, leaving me standing – alone, scared, and sweating profusely in the oppressive heat.
Hours go by. I pace back and forth, tire after a while, and sit down on the floor. Pulling my knees up under my chin, I shudder uncontrollably and begin to cry, the tears streaming down my face. Surely the tour group has noticed my absence by now. Why doesn’t someone come for me? But nothing happens. Sweltering, I unbutton another button on the front of my dress and attempt to fan myself with my hand.
Slowly the light from the small window high on the back wall of my cell begins to fade; the day is waning; the night falls. I am now terribly hungry in addition to being miserable from the heat, and feeling increasingly apprehensive. Still more hours go by. It must be the middle of the night when I finally hear someone coming.
Two policemen descend the stairs, followed by a tall and rather homely man in an officer’s uniform. The first two men open the cell door, step inside drag me brusquely to my feet, and pull me outside.
I am escorted down a side corridor to a small room, harshly lit by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. In the center of the room stands a wooden table, and one chair. I am pushed down on to the chair, my wrists uncuffed, and then re-cuffed behind me to the back of the chair so that I cannot stand or move.
The officer sets himself on the edge of the desk, looks at me gravely and begins to speak in heavily accented but passable English. My shoulder bag rests on the table next to him. He holds my passport in his hand.
“We have questions,” he intones, “What is your name?”
“I am Barbara…Barbara Moore …. just as it says in my passport,” I reply, adding, “I am an American citizen, and I have rights! This is an outrage!”
Unruffled by my outburst he calmly continues, “You are 30 years old, and you entered the country 3 days ago, correct?” And then without waiting for a response, he adds, reading from my passport, “brown hair and eyes, five feet seven inches in height, 128 pounds.”
“You know all that,” I say in frustration, “I have done nothing wrong…this is all a mistake … just let me go, please!”
“Not so fast,” he retorts, “You are under arrest, accused of stealing in the bazaar. This is a serious offense in this country. Theft is not tolerated, even by foreign visitors”.
“But I have stolen nothing,” I say, anger rising in my voice.
“We have evidence,” he responds, rising from the desk, “The merchant who owns the stall saw you slip a gold bracelet in your bag. And here we have your bag. Look what is inside.”
He reaches in my bag and produces a shiny gold bracelet, a look of triumph on his face.
“I don’t know how that got there, I stammer” a sinking feeling in my gut.
“You must realize Ms. Moore, that you are in very serious trouble,” he says with a stern look on his face, “My best advice to you, right now, is to cooperate and confess in the hope that the judge will go easy on you. Please take my advice, to do otherwise is folly!”
“No, no … I am innocent, I will not confess to something I did not do,” I shout hysterically and try to rise from the chair, but am caught up short by my hands cuffed to its back, and am forced to continue sitting.
“Very well,” he says leaning forward and slowly unbuttoning the remaining buttons on the front of my dress down, opening it down to the little fashion belt at my wait. Deftly, he then tugs my dress down off my shoulders, until it falls in folds on my lap and bunches around my cuffed wrists.
“What are you doing?” I exclaim, “You have no right to do that!”
Helplessly I watch as he reaches to get something out of a drawer at the back of the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the other two policemen ogling the swell of my heaving breasts against the confines of my light blue demi bra.
Turning back toward me, he leans forward again, holding in one hand what look like a pair of long-nose pliers, which he opens and closes a couple of times while watching my reaction. I stare at him and the pliers in disbelief, not knowing what to say or do.
Without saying a word, he reaches out with his free hand and lowers the right strap of my bra, which falls down along my arm. Then he does the same with the other.
My face is red. I am stricken with panic, as he tugs at at the right cup until my thick tumescent nipple appears just above the fabric's edge. The two policemen come up behind me and hold my shoulders tight against the back of the chair.
Applying the tongs of his pliers to my nipple’s tender crinkled tip, he squeezes hard and twists and turns. I scream in pain, the sound of my yelp reverberating off the walls.
“Stop, stop…stop this instant!” I yell at him as he twists again and pulls. A stab of pain shoots through me again; My God, it hurts like hell. I howl, sob, and begin to blubber.
“Confess!” Do so now, or else!” he hisses as he bares my other breast. Reaching behind himself again, he produces a long wicked-looking metal needle.
“Oh, no!” I gasp, “Please, please, don’t”
He applies his pliers again, this time to my other nipple, squeezing it hard and stretching it out. I shriek at the top of my lungs, and stare wide-eyed as the sharp point of the needle is pressed against the circle of pink flesh at the base of my outstretched nipple.
As he hesitates and looks me straight in the eye, I make a quick decision.
“No, for god’s sake, no!” I plead, tears welling in my eyes. “Alright, I confess. I didn’t do it, but I confess anyway; anything to stop this. You said they will be lenient, if I confess, right?”
He laughs and snorts, “You stupid Americans are so soft!”
And to his men, he growls, “Take her upstairs to see the judge.”
My wrists are uncuffed, and I am pulled to my feet. I rub my wrists, then pull up the straps on my demi bra, and gingerly adjust the cups to cover my aching breasts.
My arms are then pinned behind me and the cuffs re-applied. I am given no time to pull up my dress, which now hangs precariously from my hips as I ascend the stairs to the floor above.
Moments later I stand before a high podium, a white-haired elder in some kind of judicial headgear looking contemptuously down on me. Words are exchanged between the judge and the officer; words that are incomprehensible to me, except for my name. When the exchange is over, I look imploringly at the officer.
“Well?” I ask, “What did he say?”
“You are getting off light, just as I said you would,” he replies, “He has sentenced you to a public flogging ….forty lashes….and then quick deportation from the country. Your sentence will be carried out at noon today … in the main square. Consider yourself fortunate, Ms. Moore, the usual sentence for thievery is to have your hand cut off, or in some cases death by beheading or hanging.
Turning to the two waiting policemen, he orders, “Take her down to her cell, give her some breakfast, and leave her there until it’s time…
TO BE CONTINUED
Again such great portrayal of the victim's emotions and thoughts! Great job again Barb!!!
