The bus ride to Alamut was long and tiring. Inside the old, clanky vehicle reigned insufferable heat, and my plimsolls felt heavy and moist. I popped my naked heels (I was wearing no socks) out, then a minute later kicked the shoes off altogether. Little did I know how offensive were male bare feet to the native culture...
The cheesy odour of my foot sweat filled the bus, but I was oblivious to that, watching the exotic arid landscape behind a dusty window. Then a bus pulled to a stop at some village and two policemen entered.
An elderly woman began shrieking, pointing at me. Other passengers clamoured, too, and I belatedly realised that I had caused some disturbance. The constables addressed me in Arabic, but I only shook my head - I could not understand them. They motioned me to get off the bus. I tried to shove my feet back in my plimsolls, but they did not let me and escorted me barefoot to the village precinct. It was an unpleasant journey - the road was unpaved, and pebbles bruised my bare soles.
At the precinct I was taken into a cramped office, stuffy and filled with cigarette smoke. A slowly-rotating fan on the ceiling was decidedly useless. At the desk sat a woman in her late forties, somewhat plump, kind of attractive in a mature way, in the tan-coloured police uniform. A bar pinned above her breast pocket read in English: "Commissioner Jamila Wahid" and I suppose the same thing in Arabic. Instead of a cap the officer sported a hijab, and she was barefoot - her well-worn regulation pumps lay discarded under the desk. Probably she was taking an advantage of the cool concrete floor.
"I thought you were Muslim," she chuckled, having examined my passport and checked something on her computer. (I am somewhat dark-complexioned and wear a moustache.) "Kaen Rohne, Cypriot infidel, caught flaunting stinky bare feet! Hehe!"
I was outraged by Commissioner Wahid's hypocrisy - I could smell her own sweaty feet. But it was useless and, perhaps, dangerous to argue.
"Wash your feet!" she ordered, pointing at a small sink on the wall. I obeyed and pattered back to her desk.
"I could give you over to the gazi," Jamila said, "but you don't have previous record, and I'm in no mood for red tape. I'll deal with you myself instead."
She pressed a button, and a policeman, one of the pair that detained me, entered the room.
"Feet on the desk!" Jamila commanded. I sat on an uncomfortable tubular steel chair and put my feet on the plywood tabletop. The Commissioner stared at my hairy calves - I was wearing shorts - and produced a Marlboro and lighted up. She drew smoke and then poked my right instep with the burning cigarette.
"Aah!" I cried. "Lord!"
"That's just for starters," Commissioner Wahid said. She took a cane and cropped me across the heels. Twelve times the policewoman hit my defenceless bare soles - arches, heels, balls, as I squirmed in torment, held in the death grip by the grinning constable. My soles turned deep crimson, and pain surged through my body like an electric discharge.
"I assume you learned your first lesson." Jamila said at last. "Now on your knees, infidel!"
Moaning, I sank on my knees. Commissioner Wahid stepped out from behind her desk and lifted her thick leg, shoving her fleshy bare foot into my face. She badly needed pedicure - her unpolished toenails were cracked, her heel rough and calloused.
"Lick!" she commanded.
I ran my tongue along her sole, from her heel up to her toes. Jamila's foot had salty flavour, tasting rather like spoiled haloumi cheese. Then she made me do the same to her other foot. Jamila Wahid thought she was punishing me, but instead I got gratification that eased somewhat my ordeal - not every day one gets to sample bare feet of a uniformed policewoman...
Needless to say, the very next morning I left that barefoot-unfriendly country. I was limping almost a week.
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