The Females of Wadi Ya Noh.

Understandably, Meena was very possessive, highly covetous, of the new incumbent of Humility Hole - their Englishman foot slave.

Meena was loath, greatly reluctant, to relinquish her highly agreeable, ineffably gratifying position. She was extremely reluctant, to let the next, impatiently waiting female in line ... Fatima - who was equally eligible; and who also had every entitlement, as one of the many females of Wadi Ya Noh to be made pregnant by a subsequently absconding Englishman - to take her rightful, eagerly awaited turn with their highly-prized prisoner.

Fatima was impatient, to be taking her turn with the first Englishman ever to be incarcerated in Humility Hole. The first Englishman, ever to be ... chastised, by the females of Wadi Ya Noh.

But the females of Wadi Ya Noh did not begrudge Meena her 'moment in the sun'. For, they knew that Meena had been in a very dark place, for the past 25 years. Besides: they knew that their own, feverishly awaited turns with that foul wretch; that mangy dog, would come soon enough. They knew, that their Englishman foot slave was theirs ... for 'A Thousand Suns'. Ha! He wasn't going anywhere, anytime soon.

And so the females shrilly ululated their pleasure and approval, their encouragement, as they rapturously watched Meena; one of their elder village sisters, joyously milk her long-awaited moment, for all it was worth - and then some.

The avidly watching females of Wadi Ya Noh ululated approvingly, as Meena authoritatively commanded me to kiss the soles of her dirty, stinky feet. Again and again. Both: left to "express" myself, and kissing the different parts of Meena's soles, in my "own, personal display of reverence," - and then at the harsh, demanding, personal and particular promptings of Meena, herself.

The females of Wadi Ya Noh ululated gleefully, victoriously, triumphantly. They were jubilant, as Meena had their helpless captive - their Englishman foot slave - demonstrate the sincerity of his respect and humility, at her feet.

What an awful, terrible, horrible experience. I was sure I'd never get over it. Ever.

And, my God, it was hot! I wasn't used to this kind of heat. I wasn't accustomed, to this searing, scorching, relentless Arabian sun - and it was only December!

By now, I was becoming terribly thirsty. Distressingly so. This was getting beyond a joke. I'd had nothing to drink, for hours. Not since Claudia and her colleague (and counsellor), Samira, had served coffee aboard the Arabian Airways flight - of which I'd had just one cup.

My throat felt as though lined with coarse-grain sandpaper, and stuffed with thick wads of cotton wool. My tongue felt thick and swollen; wholly devoid of moisture. I was as dry as the proverbial bone. And, I was getting drier by the second.

Just the thought, of that cool, glinting, sparkling, freshly-drawn well water, in the large wooden bowl at Meena's feet ... I wanted water, craved water - needed water. By now, I was desperate for water. I just simply had to have it. I implored Meena: "Please, Meena. Please ... Water!" I pleaded beseechingly. "Please, Meena ... let me drink."

Of course, Meena understood only her name - but she certainly got the gist of what I was saying. Claudia translated the rest anyway ... And Meena had just learned her first few words of English.

Meena cackled maliciously. This was what it was all about; this was sweet revenge, indeed. Meena removed the sole of her right, grubby, grimy, filthy dirty, stinky foot from my face, and she dipped it into the (by now) almost lukewarm water in the large wooden bowl at her feet.

I watched, in spellbound revulsion, as Meena submerged the sole of her right foot in the precious water. And left it there, soaking - and immediately dirtying the clean liquid. After some moments, Meena withdrew her foot, and she hovered her foot over the bowl, vertically, to allow excess water to drip back into the large wooden receptacle.

I watched, in horrified fascination, as the clean and sparkling water that streamed down Meena's bare sole gradually turned into muddy-brown, viscous blobs, before reluctantly dropping from the tips of her toes. I watched, utterly appalled, as the vile-looking drops plopped; made tiny splashes that caused ripples upon the surface, and instantly further contaminated the clean, freshly-drawn well water with a quickly spreading, muddy-brown tinge, like a rapidly proliferating harmful bacteria.

Meena then presented the sole of her wetted, still dripping right foot, to my conveniently positioned face.

So ... Now I understood: this was the time-honoured, traditional method, by which the females of Wadi Ya Noh permitted their helpless prisoners - the wretched incumbents of Humility Hole ... to drink.

I stared at the revolting, yet hypnotic, sight, just inches from my eyes. I was utterly appalled, unbelievably disgusted - but I was thirsty. So incredibly, unbelievably thirsty. In my whole life, I had never imagined there could be thirst like this - and I had only been in Arabia for a few hours. And, it was only December, at that.

The sole of Meena's right foot was now a wet, milk-chocolaty brown. I was totally revolted - but I was mesmerised, too, by the awful sight. The sole of Meena's right foot: her toe pads; the caramel-coloured undersides of her toes and her arch; the ball of her foot, her heel, glistened, as it reflected the brilliant Arabian sunlight. It was almost beautiful.

But Meena's right sole was drying rapidly, in the moisture-devouring desert heat. I was wasting valuable time - wasting precious water. The life-sustaining fluid was evaporating fast. The steady dripping of the dense, disgusting, muddy-brown drops of water from the tips of Meena's toes onto the dusty, barren wasteland of Wadi Ya Noh, had all but stopped. Had almost dried up.

So I began to lick - to lap like a sun-maddened, thirst-crazed dog.

Almost instantly, I felt my tongue become coated with a layer of thick, muddy water, as it began to absorb the ghastly, gooey liquid.

And, the females of Wadi Ya Noh ululated uproariously.

First, I licked at the pads of Meena's toes: this was where the muddy-brown droplets of water were forming, and I could not allow them - could not afford - those vital drops of precious liquid to fall to the dusty desert ground; to go to such appalling waste. I then licked the undersides of Meena's toes, before progressing to the ball of her foot. I then moved onto her arch, and then her heel, which I frenziedly sucked on, trying to draw out every last bit of wetness.

And then I returned my attentions to Meena's toes. My God! It was awful, disgusting - but I had to do it. I furiously sucked on Meena's toes, one by one, before madly playing and plying my moisture seeking tongue up and down her sole. Ugh! It was terrible, horrible. But it had to be done.

With her bullying toes, Meena then parted my lips; prised open my mouth and, before I knew what she was about, she had inserted all five toes into my now, wide-open mouth - not, that I would have dared to try and prevent her from doing so. Not with the dreadful Katang, ever in mind.

My God! I could hardly believe that Meena would do such an appalling, abusive, utterly humiliating thing - that any female would. But there was more to come, when Meena then forcibly crammed her toes in even further, deeper, 'obliging' me to accommodate them all.

My God! It was awful. So incredibly horrible. But then my terrible ordeal got even worse, when Meena brutally forced in more and more of her foot; cruelly shoving her foot, even deeper into my mouth, further and further. Until I started gagging. Until I was almost choking ... Until I was helplessly staring, teary-eyed, at her still-glistening, hard-skinned, flat-bottomed, dominating heel, barely more than an inch away from my eyes - almost too close to focus on.

Meena then slightly eased the terrible pressure upon my mouth and throat. And once again I stared fixedly at her muddy, still-glistening heel, right in front of my eyes, as I sucked on and in-between all of her toes.

I moaned like a maniac, as I fought to overcome my stomach-turning disgust; moaned, as I tried to ignore the foul tastes and textures of the globules of gunge that my probing tongue prised loose, and excavated from in between each of Meena's toes.

For, so desperate, was I, that I sucked like crazy, in a frantic effort to absorb every last bit of precious, life-sustaining moisture, before it evaporated away into the hot desert air.

At beholding the ineffably pleasing, supremely gratifying scene unfolding before them, the ecstatic, blissful ululations of the avidly watching females of Wadi Ya Noh, rose even higher; even more shrill, in pitch. And now, there was a distinctly triumphant, jubilant - celebratory - quality, to their dreadful ululating.

Yes: that was exactly it, I realised. The females of Wadi Ya Noh were celebrating.

The females of Wadi Ya Noh smirked and smiled, chuckled and giggled, laughed and cackled, in their ecstatic, jubilant, triumphant delight. Like a coven of evil witches around their cauldron at mid-night, they capered about, danced deliriously, cavorted comically.

They all but high-fived each other, in mutual congratulation, as they saw Meena's dirty, grimy, wettened foot: saw her dominating heel, at the level of my teary eyes; saw her toes, crammed deep into my mouth ... being sucked - being licked clean - by their Englishman foot slave.

Playing to the cheering crowd, Meena at last withdrew her right foot from my mouth and, theatrically, she exaggeratedly turned her ankle this way, that way - every-which-way - so that she, and the rest of the females of Wadi Ya Noh could closely inspect the results, so far, of my tongue-cleaning attentions upon her filthy dirty sole.

Upon her observing that the sole of her right foot was covered in muddy-brown splotches; full of dirty smears, streaks and lines, comprised of mud, grime, dirt, foot sweat - and my saliva, Meena again submerged the sole of her right foot in the large wooden bowl of water at her feet. Meena flexed, scrunched, and wiggled her toes in the precious water, as she swirled her foot around the bowl.

The originally clean and sparkling, freshly-drawn well water, was now turning as dull as dishwater ... But, no: it was worse than that - a lot worse.

For the water was starting to turn a decidedly unhealthy-looking, darker shade of brown. Starting to look less and less appealing. Less and less wholesome. Less and less palatable ... as the heavier bits and pieces of mud, dirt and grime that I had tongue-loosened from the sole and toes of Meena's right foot, broke up, and then slowly sank to the bottom of the bowl, like bits of dirty jetsam ... While the lighter particles simply dissolved; permeated the water; and floated on the surface, like the sinister-looking scum tide of some washed-up chemical waste residue.

I was utterly appalled. Absolutely disgusted. My stomach was turning over, just at the very sight of the deliberately - purposefully - spoiled water.

But, I was also very hot and very thirsty. So incredibly thirsty. I had never known such terrible thirst. I was burning up; on the verge of spontaneous combustion, I was sure, from the relentless, oppressive heat of that terrible Arabian sun. I had to have water. Just had to. Any water. Even ...

Again, Meena allowed the excess, muddy-brown droplets of water to drip from the toes of her right foot, and back into the large wooden bowl at her feet, before presenting her sole to my conveniently positioned face ... letting me drink.

This time, I did not hesitate. Whoever said: 'He who hesitates, is lost', was bang on the money. This time, I did not stop to think. I did not stop to consider; to ponder, about what I was actually doing. I didn't give a second's thought, about my degradation. My humiliation. This time, I did not allow a single drop of that precious water to be lost. My God! I needed that water. I needed every last drop. Every drop that I could possibly get. And I was now totally beyond caring, as to how I actually got it.

I promptly licked, lapped and sucked on every part of the sole of Meena's mud-streaked, filthy dirty right foot. Licked, lapped, and sucked, like a man possessed. As though my very existence depended on it - as it surely did.

And, the ululating wailing of the females of Wadi Ya Noh, was their dreadful, untuneful, unmelodious, decidedly discordant background music, as they watched Meena ... let me drink.

At last; and after having submerged the sole of her right foot in the large wooden bowl of water for the 4th time, Meena again withdrew her right foot from my conveniently positioned face to inspect her sole again. Meena studied her sole carefully. Scrutinised it critically. And, Meena saw that I had now actually licked, lapped and sucked the sole of her right foot, thoroughly, flawlessly, spotlessly clean.

Now, it hit me. Hit me, like a karate kick to the solar plexus. The unthinkable reality, of what I had just actually done. The dreadful depths, to which I had sunk. I hung my head, in deep, soul-destroying shame. I couldn't believe, what I had just actually done ... I could never hold my head up again.

And, my gut felt so horribly weighed down; my stomach, heavy and uncomfortable, to say the least. The dust, dirt, grime, foot sweat; these were the unpalatable, stomach-turning cocktail of ingredients, the ... foreign matter, that combined to make up the horrid, gooey mud-soup that I had licked, lapped, sucked and slurped from the sole of Meena's right foot.

The mud-soup, that had (if the dreadful way that I now felt, was any indicator) overloaded, overwhelmed, and overflowed my body system's sludge-collecting, filth-sifting filters, and then slowly drifted down, through my stomach, and sunk to the very bottom of my gut, like dirty, silty old engine oil draining to the bottom of a sump.

I felt as sick as a dog; my stomach, on the point of revolt. On the verge of a violent upheaval, just at the very thought of what I had actually consumed.

But, the awful state of my physical health, was actually of far less concern to me, than was the truly dreadful state of my psychological well being.

My sense of shame; of soul-shredding humiliation, was like a powerful, irresistible force of mental gravity. It crushed my spirit; dragged me down. And down.

For, after what I had done today - albeit, I felt I had little choice in the matter - I felt that I could never walk straight-backed again. I could only walk with my head down. Slump-shouldered. Dejected. Shame-faced.

For, there would be an indelible stain upon my character that: although invisible from outside, it would, like a corrosive, slowly burning acid, be forever keenly felt, inside.

Meena sighed. And, it was a sigh of blissful, ineffable satisfaction. For, I - an Englishman - had demonstrated, to Meena, the sincerity of my respect and humility, at her feet.

Meena ululated. It was a high-pitched, almost ear-piercing sound. In the throes of her overwhelming, ecstatic, heartfelt joy; in her incredible, undreamed of happiness, Meena ululated.

Elation. It was, of course, the sound of elation. Thrilling, exhilarating, spirit-soaring elation. Pure and simple. For ... her time had come.

Though it was scant compensation, it was a blessed consolation. It really meant that much, to Meena. Who had been so cruelly spurned, so callously abandoned, 25 years ago, by the English oil worker - Vincent. Resulting - as a 'Fallen' female - in her exile to Wadi Ya Noh. Along with baby Claudia - her 'tainted' daughter.

Meena's long-standing, sorely grievous grudge - a grudge, that had, for all of these long years, unceasingly tortured her mind; had relentlessly eaten away at her insides, like a nagging, gnawing, tormenting tangle of worms - was, at last, now being satisfactorily addressed. Redressed.

Meena was, at long, long last, tasting her cold dish of revenge. For, Meena was actually inflicting her culture's greatest, gravest, grossest, and vilest of all possible insults: having the soles of her feet sniffed, kissed, and then licked clean - upon an Englishman.

Meena gleefully displayed the sole of her English-tongue cleaned right foot to her village sisters - who did not take offence, at the usually direly offensive, grievously insulting, showing-the-sole-of-your-foot, gesture. Not a bit of it!

Instead, upon seeing the results for themselves - Meena's still-glistening, spotlessly clean right sole - those of Meena's village sisters who were not already barefoot, began to remove their own shoes: a motley assortment of colour-faded, barely serviceable, ratty, tatty, worn-out flats, pumps, slingbacks, mules, clogs, sandals, rubber and plastic flip flops ...

Meena's village sisters displayed to each other the soles of their own, dusty, dirty, grubby, grimy feet, while at the same time meaningfully pointing their fingers and gesturing at me - their highly-prized, Englishman prisoner ...

Pointing and gesturing, towards their Englishman foot slave. Safely and securely incarcerated, in Humility Hole. A picture of pure despondency. Waiting, helplessly and hopelessly. Waiting, for each and every one of them to take their eagerly-awaited, richly entitled turn.

Meena then submerged the sole of her left foot in the large wooden bowl of water at her feet. She let her sole soak, for a few moments; flexing, scrunching, and wiggling her toes, and leisurely swirling her sole around the surface of the water in the bowl.

Meena then withdrew the sole of her left foot from the once-clean, but now, increasingly dirty water. She hovered her foot over the bowl, vertically; her toes pointing downwards. I watched, as the water ran down from the bottom of Meena's heel to her toes, and then dripped from the tips of her toes, in unsightly, muddy-brown - almost black - viscous droplets, back into the receptacle.

The sole of Meena's left foot was now a wettened, muddy, milk-chocolaty brown. Now, with her left foot, Meena reached back and, she was poised; her balance, confident and assured, as she presented the sole of her left foot to my conveniently positioned face ... letting me drink.

The great ball of the glowing, still fiercely glaring Arabian sun was almost down, by the time I had demonstrated the sincerity of my respect and humility, at the grubby, dirty, grimy feet, of all of the females of Wadi Ya Noh. All 20 of them.

There had been the strict ... protocols, of the 3-phase, time-honoured, traditional rituals to duly observe, at the feet of every female of Wadi Ya Noh.

Firstly: there was the deeply disgusting, acutely distressing - foot-sniffing ritual.

Secondly: there was the extremely degrading, bringing-you-to-your-knees - foot-kissing ritual.

Thirdly: there was the appallingly cruel, hideously humiliating - foot-cleaning ritual ... letting me drink. Or not, as the case may be: for the females had the power of discretion, in this matter.

Demonstrating the sincerity of my respect and humility at the feet of the females of Wadi Ya Noh, had been incredibly horrible and disgusting and, by far, the worst experience of my life. And I am sure I will never be able to forget it. I couldn't paint too black a picture: grim, harrowing, humiliating; it had been a truly horrible, terribly traumatic, mind-scarring ordeal.

Their ululating wailing was almost constant, hardly ever seemed to stop. But, when it did, the ensuing silence was usually so deep, so threat-laden, so ominous, as to make me actually want their awful noise to start up again. In the desert air of Humility Square, their ululations rang loud and clear. Sang out: individually, at one pitch of intensity or another; yet also amalgamating, into a single wall of raucous sound, that grated on my nerves, wearing me down. Slowly driving me mad, I was sure.