NEXT UP! 3 160 I’m not turning back, I said. We’re near Greece, and if we aren’t near, at least we’re halfway by now. It’s the same distance, so it makes no difference if we go on or turn back, and I prefer to die in the sea rather than start this whole journey all over again. We started arguing, right there in the middle of the sea, with the darkness and the waves all around, and with Rahmat and me saying, To Greece, to Greece. And Soltan and Liaqat saying, To Turkey, to Turkey. And Hussein Ali still bailing water and crying and saying, The mountain’s falling, the mountain’s falling, because the waves were so high – two or three metres or even more – that when they towered over us, when the dinghy was in the hollow between one wave and the next, it was as if they were about to collapse on top of us. But instead they lifted us right up and, when we were on the crest, let us down again with a bump, like the carousels I’ve been on here in Italy, at the amusement park. But, right then, it wasn’t amusing at all. So the situation was this: Rahmat and me rowing like mad towards Greece (or in the direction we thought Greece was), while Soltan and Liaqat were rowing towards Turkey to bail – ausa to tower over – gnæfa yfir a hollow – dæld a crest – öldutoppur
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