The Bezistan Chronicles
 By: Jean-Christophe
(© 2012 by the author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

Chapter 13
MIKE’S ARRIVAL:

My torment begins the moment my cage is unloaded from the cargo plane. Placed at he side of the tarmac with the other new arrivals, I now wait to be hauled naked from the security of my cage and loaded onto a transporter. 

Peering through the bars of my cage, I watch as the other new slaves are pulled, one by one, from their cages, shackled and dragged to the waiting transports. Soon it is to be my turn, and I begin to hyperventilate from the horror of what is happening to me. My shocked mind isn't able to deal with the cruel betrayal by my friends, Brett and Craig; a betrayal that sees me delivered into brutal slavery. Never mind that I had condemned so many other young men to the same fate that now awaits me. In my miserable self-pity, I don't spare them a second thought.

In my insatiable greed for riches, my need for social acceptance and my self-centredness, I'd never considered the consequences of my actions. In my immaturity, I'd romanticised the notion that me being a ‘recruiter’ of slaves for Prince Rashid was some exotic adventure. Callously, I never gave any thought to what happened to my recruits once they reached Prince Rashid.

I had a Hollywood style view of Middle Eastern slavery – of opulent palaces, masters reclining on silk pillows and of contented slaves with naked, oiled bodies covered by nothing more than the skimpiest of loin-cloths slowly fanning their masters and offering them refreshments from golden platters. I had never visited Prince Rashid in the Middle-East-in fact, I'd never been invited to-and I was oblivious to the true horrors of the fate that awaited my unfortunate victims.

My love of money and my self-indulgence had blinded me to the reality of my crimes.

Bitterly, I ask myself. What has brought me here? What had I done to deserve this? Even now, lost in my self- pity, it doesn't occur to me that these same questions would have been asked by all the enslaved young men who preceded me here to this blisteringly hot hell-hole on earth.

Foolishly, I had considered I had a ‘special’ relationship and friendship with Prince Rashid. I had taken him for granted and I had treated him as I would any of my close friends. That was my mistake. I had presumed too much and I had slighted his dignity. For this insult I'm to pay a high price. I have been brought here to serve him as a slave-not in his palace but rather in his fields as a beast-of burden. The thought of this is too much for me. My muffled roar of anguish reverberates through the scorching desert air and attracts the attention of the slave handlers. They walk towards me and fearfully I curl up into a tight ball on the floor of my cage.

I'm manhandled out of my cage by two enormous African slaves and fitted with shackles around my wrists and ankles. Uselessly, I struggle in their firm grip; futilely I dig my feet into the hot, yielding sand and I scream out my defiance and outrage as they drag me to one of two waiting transports.

Roughly thrust into the cage-like conveyance, I'm forced to the front by the pressure of bodies from behind me as other slaves are loaded into the transport. Packed tightly, we now share our sweaty nakedness with one another. From my position, at the front of the cage, I'm able to gaze down at the miserable, filthy wretches who obviously provide the pulling power for the transport.

What I see fills me with horror, for I know from Prince Rashid's earlier comments on the plane that this is to be my fate. Below me I see five rows each of four naked slaves yoked together in pairs. Their heads are obscured by heavy, wooden yokes and their bodies are bent forward over `timber pushing bars' to which their hands are manacled. Their strong backs and legs bulge with overdeveloped muscles and their asses are exposed to full view. I look in disgust at the dreadful state of these wretched creatures.

Unwashed, their bodies are coated with a patina of dust which has been turned to mud by their sweat and then baked hard in the fierce, desert heat. Their powerful buttocks are spread wide and their cinched cocks and balls hang low on prominent display between their muscular legs. They stand docilely as biting, stinging insects feast on their bodies and swarms of flies hover over them. They shake their bodies and stamp their feet in a futile attempt to rid themselves of these pests. Forbidden to speak, the only sounds they make are a series of grunts and snorts. Their backs and rumps wear the crisscross pattern of the whip; some of their stripes are evidently fresh wounds and are still bleeding.

The stench from their bodies is nauseating and it churns my stomach.

As I look out in dismay, two overseers climb onto a seat at the front of the transport and begin shouting in a language I don't understand. Four naked, black slaves take up position; two on either side of the team of draft slaves who have suddenly become agitated. These draft slaves know their rest period is over and that they are now required to haul the transport and its load of new slaves back to the quarantine building; a slow, laborious trip of an hour's duration. The overseers shout instructions at their African helpers who uncoil long, vicious whips and begin to lash the draft slaves into action.

Then, as the two overseers shout "HYUP! HYUP! HYUP!" the slaves begin to pull as one; their bodies straining under the heavy load. I watch their muscles tense as the wagon begins it journey. As the transport rolls forward the Africans eagerly and enthusiastically apply their whips to the straining backs of the slaves. The Africans, although they too are slaves, attack their task with enthusiastic vigour. Eager to ingratiate themselves with their masters they enjoy the small measure of authority they have been given over their fellow slaves. Therefore, they apply their whips to the straining backs of the draft slaves with all the strength their powerful arms can muster.

The slaves respond by pulling even harder. The two overseers quickly bring into play their own long whips which are capable of reaching even the slaves in the front row. These whips are ‘cracked’ over the heads of the draft slaves to further encourage them in their labours. Inevitably these whips too are applied to the slaves' bodies. Lashed from above and from the side the unhappy slaves respond by lurching forward in their yokes and harnesses and pull with all their strength. I can see that the slaves' bodies are under enormous strain and that they have no other choice but to comply with the shouted commands of their drivers.

Still not satisfied with the slaves' efforts, a driver exhorts them to,

"PULL! You lazy animals. PULL! Put your backs into it."

And to add emphasis to this exhortation he viciously lashes the bodies of the four slaves immediately below him. These miserable wretches grunt out their pain but respond by thrusting
their bodies forward in the vain hope of avoiding the lash.

Slowly our transport lurches forward and falls in behind the other transport as we begin our lumbering journey to the reception area for newly arrived slaves. Pulling their heavy loads, the sweating, straining slaves grunt, groan and fart with the exertion of their labours.

Our two transports slowly move away from the bleak desert landscape surrounding the airstrip into an area of lush, green market-gardens and orchards. These are irrigated by an intricate system of water channels and spaced strategically along these are water-wheels driven by treadmills. Chained to these treadmills are yet more slaves whose only purpose in life is to mindlessly and endlessly walk on the treadmills in a Sisyphean effort to ensure a constant supply of water flows through the gardens and orchards. The original source of this water is ground water and two teams of slaves work around the clock in alternating shifts of twelve hours driving huge, back-breaking pumps to ensure a non-stop supply of water flows through to the channels. Everywhere I look there are naked slaves toiling under the lash of their impatient overseers.

These gardens and orchards are important contributors to the wealth of the al-Bahr business empire. The vegetables, fruits, grapes and olives grown here are exported to the nearby, wealthy markets of Europe and South-east Asia. Prince Rashid takes great pride in the fact that this produce is quickly and freshly harvested each day and taken to the packaging sheds for immediate processing. There, yet more slaves ceaselessly toil through both day and night packaging this produce ready to be shipped out in refrigerated cargo planes.

Rashid is proud of the fact that his crops are environmentally friendly and are hand grown without either mechanical help or the use of chemical fertilisers or insecticides; only organic manures and sprays are employed here. The reputation of his products is second to none and the demand for his fruit and vegetables is high. Any produce bearing the al-Bahr brand is eagerly sought out by discerning buyers in the supermarkets of both Europe and South-east Asia.

These buyers appreciate the freshness and high quality of the al-Bahr produce but give no thought to the misery and suffering of the slaves who toil relentlessly to put it on their tables. For them it is simply a case of ‘out of sight; out of mind.’

Travelling down the road, we pass convoys of slave-drawn flat-top drays moving in both directions. Those moving in one direction are loaded with freshly harvested fruit and vegetables and are on their way to the processing buildings. Others, returning from the opposite direction are empty and are on their way back to the fields to pick up another load. Each of these drays is drawn by a team of draft slaves under the direction and whips of a slave-driver and his naked, African, slave assistants.

The heavily laden drays move slowly as the sweating draft slaves pull and strain to the limits of their physical endurance. To encourage them in their efforts they are continually lashed by the Africans. By contrast, the empty drays move quickly and it is evident that the slaves drawing these are enjoying a brief respite from the heavy pulling. They know, however, that this won't last and that shortly they too will be straining in their yokes and harnesses hauling yet another heavy load back to the packaging buildings.

As the drays pass us, I see that the dray slaves' vision is restricted to the road ahead by leather blinkers. Adding to my horror, I note they all have large snout- rings inserted through their nostrils. These are made of heavy metal and rest over their top lips and I'm soon to learn from bitter, personal experience that these snout-rings are used by the slave-drivers as a means of controlling the slaves in their charge.

The crops growing in the fields are at various stages of development. Everywhere, slaves labour under the harsh supervision of their overseers picking tomatoes, capsicums, melons of all varieties and beans. In other fields slaves are digging up potatoes, onions and other root vegetables or cutting lettuces, broccoli, cabbages and cauliflowers. Yet more slaves are busy loading all these onto the drays for transport to the processing sheds.

In those fields where the crops are not yet ready for harvesting, still more slaves are toiling, under the lash, hoeing between the rows of growing vegetables or crawling on their hands and knees pulling weeds. In adjoining fields other slaves are busy preparing the ground for planting. These miserable wretches, working in pairs, wear heavy wooden yokes across their shoulders that also encircle their necks and are they harnessed by chains to primitive, single furrow ploughs made of wood. Bent forward in their harness, they strain their bodies to the utmost of their strength to pull the heavy ploughshare through the resisting earth. Guiding the ploughs are African drivers armed with a long, hippopotamus hide whips.

These field slaves, like their draft slave brothers wear snout rings through their noses. Their naked, filthy and deeply tanned bodies are unwashed and unkempt. They wear heavy metal collars around their necks and their genitals are encircled with metal cinch rings that force their penises and scrotums into prominent display. These field slaves work in chains and have shackles on their wrists and ankles. Their backs, without exception, exhibit the all too familiar crisscross pattern of the whip.

As our journey continues I notice low, cage-like buildings spaced at regular intervals along the road and adjacent to the fields. The walls of these buildings consist of strong metal bars open to the elements on all four sides. The roof is made of heavy, corrugated sheeting as a protection against the infrequent rain and the concrete floor is covered with straw. These provide the sleeping quarters for the field slaves. With his usual business acumen, Rashid has worked out that it is more time efficient to have the slaves housed `in situ' rather than move them back and forth to the central slave barracks at the Bezistan. This way, no time is lost in getting the slaves into the fields. He estimates that with this saving in time the slaves have at least an extra hour each day to toil in the fields.

Next to each of these buildings are several composting pits which deal with all extraneous plant material left over after harvesting and other wastes. There, these slowly rot down into rich compost which is then used as fertiliser for the vegetable crops. Slaves are busily working up to their knees and waists in these pits `turning over' this material to allow for quicker composting. The pungent odour of rotting organic matter permeates the whole area.

These scenes are terrifying for me – and my fellow slaves- and travelling down this road we perhaps catch a glimpse our own slavery. The thought that we could soon join the pitiful slaves toiling in the fields is too awful to contemplate and many of us are openly weeping.

My fellow slaves are unaware that the slavery awaiting them is of a more benign form. Fortunately for them they will be spared the horrors of living and working as beasts-of-burdens; labouring under the lash in the al-Bahr fields, mines, quarries or saltpans. They are prime, young slaves especially chosen by Prince Rashid to be trained as pleasure slaves skilled in the use of their bodies to give sexual pleasure to their new masters. They will however, be subject to the same harsh disciplines and punishments as all other al-Bahr slaves as they undertake this training.

The exception to this is me. As I look down on the draft slaves, I see with gut wrenching clarity the awful reality of my future life. For my temerity in thinking we were friends, Prince Rashid has condemned me to a life of unspeakable horror and indescribable suffering. I'm doomed to spend the rest of my day toiling as a beast-of-burden like the poor wretches straining in their harness before me. I'm to pay an awful price for my foolishness.

Suddenly, ahead of us, emerging out of the heat haze, we see a huge, stone building. Its grim, fortress-like bulk looms large over the surrounding terrain and is surrounded by other lesser buildings. This is the infamous Bezistan and here we are to be inducted into our slavery.

Here also, when they have finished their training as pleasure slaves, my more fortunate companions will be examined and appraised by prospective buyers before mounting the auction block and bought by their new masters.

How I am envy them in their new lives. They will live lives of comparative ease and luxury while I toil as a naked beast-of-burden for the remainder of my days.

To be continued...

Posted: 08/24/12