As I write this I’m sitting under the porch of the registration house of our campsite in the outskirts of Damascus surrounded by elderly German and Italian tourists. Half of them are stripped to the waist and the other half are wandering about aimlessly in bathrobes. One man has a whistle hung around his neck, I can’t imagine why. Joe thinks we’ve stumbled on some kind of travelling sex club, the members of which caravan to exotic destinations for a bit of key party action before rumbling back home to pamper their grandkids and complain bitterly about the quality of the fruit in the supermarket. I guess we’ll find out if that’s true when the lights go out later tonight. Phil says he’s worried that he’ll be woken in the early hours by the gentle caress of an old man’s testicles being placed gently on his forehead. I think it’s a legitimate concern.
Most of them keep staring at us like they just got eyes for Christmas but one man, in a wilted legionnaire’s cap, keeps wandering up behind the truck, sucking his teeth, stroking his wild, grey goatee beard and patting his enormous belly, which is barely constrained beneath a spinnaker-like t-shirt. A short while ago, after a thorough inspection of the vehicle and its occupants, he looked over at the five men seated in the annex of a large blue tent on the far side of the camping ground and, with a lascivious looking grin, gave them the thumbs up. Mum, if you don’t hear from me soon, I’ve been kidnapped by German perverts and I’m probably on my way to some new and exotic location in the back of their bus which, and I kid you not, is called Das Rollendar Hotel. Send help immediately, they may be headed for the Dead Sea.
That is all,
Dale Atkinson
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