Having just arrived in Bravania, a friend recommended the best way to see the city—and it’s surrounds—was by way of a guided tour. I jumped online and found one in my price range. The woman on the phone was very friendly and helpful and I was able to book a package: The Bravania Adventure Tour.
The bus driver who picked us all up—individually, from our various hotels—was charming and kind and possessed a quick wit.
Up until the bus ride, my dealings with the Bravanian locals had been fraught, to say the least. Wandering the quaint cobblestone streets of Bravania, where the population of dogs outnumber the people, and each cafe and restaurant seems to have in its window an A4 print-out boasting the cheapest and ‘best’ local eats, I’d more or less kept my head down, ignoring the unfriendly faces of the people around me, whose whispered words sounded like curses to my foreign ears. Of course, they were not, and I am embarrassed to admit any fears I had that they were is merely evidence of latent xenophobia on my part. Since my experience in Bravania, I am now almost certain they were the opposite.
Bravania is a town untouched by modernisation. It is like stepping through a time. I have never seen so much hay on a city street, nor so many people carrying pitchforks to go about their daily business. The locals speak English, but their accents are muddy, and the dialect reminds me ye old English. An unusual mix of English and Latin. In Bravania, the tunic is still in fashion, superstition runs rife, and the smell of boiling meat fills the city streets like an inexhaustible vaporous cloud.
The bus driver, however, was different. Whereas other Bravanian locals seemed to resent the opening of their borders and the influx of tourism, he appeared to relish the opportunity with a smile on his face and eyes full of wonder. He was talkative and charming, calling his bus, “The biggest horse on the farm.”
He, like many, if not all Bravanian’s, has lived his entire life in Bravania. He made a point of learning all our names, was very informative when it came to local history, and offered us recommendations for where to eat and drink—upon our return, of course. “They might say they’re the best,” he’d said, “but only some of them are.”
Our first stop was a huge waterfall just outside of the city. The Screaming Waters of Ibruck. A little touristy, but beautiful all the same. We piled out of the bus to take the obligatory photos as our tour guide told us how the Falls got their name, which, to my surprise, was not related to the loudness of the rushing water.
“At night, the aquas keep flowing, but are silent. So silent you can hear screams from the other side of yonder mountain,” he said. “An old folk myth,” he added with his trademark grin, as though to laugh at himself, and allow us to laugh along with him.
It was strange, I thought, but even there, so far from the town, I could still smell the suffocating odor of boiling meat.
“What’s that smell?” I’d asked at one point.
The tour guide—Jasbek, was his name, I believe—sniffed the air, smiled and said, “Someone must be cooking.”
The bus seated about 13, and was quite new and comfortable, thank God—or as the locals in Bravania might say, “Thank the many Gods.” The tour lasts 9 hours and includes long stretches on the bus. There was little talking among the other tourists, but the guide was chatty enough and spoke to us regularly about what we were seeing as he kept his eyes on the dirt road, glancing back occasionally to throw in a joke here and there. We passed several work horses and donkeys, and a few other cars. An empty bus or two coming back the other way.
“That’s the River of Agony,” Jasbek said, pointing to a dry creek bed. “There is never any aqua in it, hence the name.
“See those mountains? In Bravanian folk lore, there is a giant who lives up there. When we are babes, we are told to eat our meat, so we can grow up big and strong and one day eat the giant’s heart. He is a kind giant, but it is said if you eat his heart, you will be filled with his kindness and grow to be his size until someone else eats your heart.”
We listened to his tales and explanations with tourist’s awe, squirreling away these nuggets of information to no doubt bring them out at dinner parties upon our return home. What fools we were to think we would return.
Night had already fallen by the time we stopped at the second location. “The sun doesn’t stay very long in the sky in Bravania,” Jasbek informed us with a wry smile, “so most sight-seeing has to be done in the dark.”
“The Bravanian Woods” said the guide, as we all got out of the bus. “A lot of Bravanian literature and folklore comes from these woods,” he said, “and some other things too.”
Then, opening the back of the bus, he pulled out a large box full of torches. The woman on the phone had mentioned a guided tour of the Bravanian Woods. However, ever the fool and optimist, I had expected this tour to take place in daylight.
“Like wood,” the guide continued. “A lot of the houses you see in the town centre are made from wood from this forest.”
Apprehensive at first, I took my torch and joined the group, who now all stood away from the bus at the entrance to the great dark forest. An ominous sense of foreboding coming over me as I stared into the dense foliage, black as a void, calling out to us, the moon hiding behind a cloud, scared for what it knew would surely come.
Jasbek took a backpack from the front seat and I, struck by that ominous feeling, had an inexplicable urge to enquire as to what was inside that backpack, but did not want to seem worrisome or paranoid or, worst of all, suspicious in the way some tourists become when travelling with citizens of that country. The tour had great reviews, the price was reasonable, Jasbek had been nothing but friendly. I kept my concerns to myself, telling myself the backpack most likely included a first aid kits and spare batteries for the torches. Perhaps a spare one should one of the customers’ torches stop working.
While the woods are very beautiful and serene—as I have mentioned—I would be remiss not to mention they are also very quiet and somewhat spooky. The canopy is thick, and no light reaches the mushroom-stained dirt of the forest floor, and the eyes have a tendency to create shapes out of shadows. In the silence, I found myself wishing our guide would speak more, if for no other reason than to fill the air with something other than dread. I did not request this, nor ask any questions, fearing that, if I did, I might ruin the experience for the others who, perhaps, were enjoying the “peaceful” silence more than I was.
We walked for what seemed like an hour—step after step—deeper into those horrible woods, and I began to wonder why. The tour was only supposed to last nine hours, and there were still other landmarks to see: the Cliff’s of Ill Tidings; the Swamp of Sorrow; the Bravanian Cheese Museum. I began to wonder how we would see them, if we were to spend so much time in these woods. Surely, I thought, the Cheese Museum could only be open so late.
I mentioned earlier that the other tourists didn’t speak much to one another on the bus. This isn’t entirely true. There was a small amount of chatter, and I myself tried to start a conversation with the young couple sitting beside me. They were nice enough but seemed content to simply listen to our driver and look out of the window.
I noticed at this point, they were gone.
Scanning the group, it seemed it was only those two who were missing, so I approached Jasbek, and alerted him to the fact. He tried to remain calm, but I could sense his concern. He told us to wait together in this section of the woods and not to separate. Then, before any of us could argue, he took his backpack and left in search of the young couple.
While I wasn’t thrilled to be left alone in the middle of the Bravanian Woods—so steeped in the folklore of imps, goblins, witches and shadow monsters, as it is—I can’t place the blame entirely on the tour company, as it was not the driver’s fault, but the young couple’s disappearance that led to our situation. I was worried for them, of course, but I cannot deny I felt a slight sense of resentment creeping up within me.
As we waited, every sound, or cracking of twigs made my hair stand on end, and I began to regret coming on this tour at all. The smell of boiling meat following us wherever we went, somehow, despite the distinct lack of civilization, it was even stronger in the forest, almost drowning out the smell of pine and damp soil entirely.
Hearing the flapping of wings, I shone my torch upward into the trees, and what I saw in the beam from my flashlight, as it passed the lower branches, will forever be burned into my memory. A scar on my brain. The young man, part of the missing young couple, hanging from the tree, his eyes seemingly burnt, the area around them charred as though fire didn’t so much go into them, but came from within. His jaw was also severely dislocated.
An older man from the group asked me what I saw, running to my side as I screamed and turned off my torch. I could barely say it out loud, simply pointing in the general direction. The man looked. “There’s nothing there,” he said.
I didn’t know what to do. Had my mind really conjured up such a grotesque image all on its own? I was tired, yes. I find guided tours, for all their attempts to make you comfortable, a little exhausting. While they are the best way to get a holistic view of an unfamiliar city, with their mix of broad stroke tourist destinations, hidden pockets of culture and the specificity of local knowledge, taking that much information in all at once does tire the mind. Still, even now, writing this down, the image of the hanging young man with blackened eyes, singed cheeks and loose jaw, haunts me. As does that horrible odor. The smell of boiling meat.
It was at this point, that a murmuring started among our group. Another young couple, two men from Australia, suggested we turn back and return to the bus. A sensible suggestion made complicated by our missing host.
“If he comes back and we’re not here…” a young woman argued, (maybe French – or possibly from a French speaking country).
The brunette Australian finished his sentence, “He’ll return to the bus.”
He had a point, and we all, whether we wanted to admit it or not, wanted to return to the bus. We had paid about six hundred Bravanian Lira each to be on this tour—approximately forty British pounds—so by no means did we want to waste our money. But, there in the dark, with no guide, surrounded by nothing (we hoped) but trees, we all agreed that it was in our best interest to return the way we came.
Which, unfortunately, nobody could quite agree on.
The problem with guided tours is you expect to be guided. There is no need to take a map, nor even consider bringing a compass. Yes, we had our mobile phones—In this day and age, it’s an anomaly not to have one, but out in the Bravanian woods, so far from the city center, even those who had purchased a local SIM card, found them useless.
Unable to agree on a direction, the group split in two. I, with the (French?) woman, the Australian couple, and a group of young people from South Korea who had mentioned briefly their interest in the folklore of this country—filmmakers, I think, or students. Either way, losing them—as they were so young and full of hope and energy—still saddens me.
The others left in the opposite direction. Was it foolish to split up? Yes. So, why did we do it? I rationalized that, in the light of day, the Bravarian authorities would be able to retrieve the lost party easily. As dark and scary as these woods were that night, I knew that in the morning, there would no doubt be joggers passing through, not to mention a few eager dog walkers. Bravania is famous for its dogs. Two dogs to every household, goes the statistic. The important thing was that one of us reached the bus.
We had barely been walking for ten minutes when, from out of the darkness, we heard the piercing cries of the other party. A short five seconds of concentrated horror, which returned just as quickly to the quiet of the night, the swaying branches, the rustling leaves, the soft wind moving deftly through the long limbs of the trees.
Stillness followed—in the air, and in our bodies. It was as though we were afraid even to breathe less the sound of our breath drown out an important clue or warning, a sound we would need to hear to ensure our survival.
After this long moment of silence, I looked to my group, wondering if we should go back to check on them, but nobody spoke, and I too—to my shame—did not press the matter. Remembering what I’d seen—or, at the very least, thought I’d seen in the trees—was enough to keep my mouth shut.
As a child we had heard rumors of Bravania. Of the things that go on in this remotest of towns beyond the reach of the modern day and the harsh illuminating light it casts. As previously mentioned, Bravania had only recently opened its borders to tourism, so it was a thrill to be able to come to a place so untouched and rooted in its own cultures. There is always danger. But, being a rational man as I am—as is evidenced by my balanced reviews of other restaurants, services, and hotels—I thought nothing of these seemingly violent, cruel, and far-fetched stories, playing them off as superstition, small-mindedness at best, bigotry at worst.
I wish I had taken note. Perhaps I wouldn’t have found myself out there in the woods after sunset, lost and alone, and walking through the darkness. Perhaps I wouldn’t still be having the dreams.
Thankfully, or so I thought, it was at this point we stumbled upon our guide once more. He was panicked and covered in blood.
“Red clay,” he assured us. He had fallen into a puddle of red clay. He offered that someone touch his arm—which, one of the South Korean students did, nodding, assuring us it was, as we had been told, clay.
Funny how the mind plays tricks on you when you’re scared; conjures visions to confirm your fears.
Our tour guide led us back toward the bus, joking along the way that he hoped we wouldn’t let this experience turn us off Bravania, saying we would receive a refund in full. A few pandered to the guide and told him they didn’t blame him for what happened. I suspect those who stayed silent, did.
As we walked toward the bus, it occurred to me we were going in the direction we had come from. This meant the other group had chosen the correct path. My first thought was that it was a good thing, my second thought was, then why had they screamed?
A sudden thought struck me. “Where is the young couple?” I asked. “The two from India? The people you went to look for—did you find them?”
Jasbek did not respond at first, which did nothing for my nerves, and I could feel my heart beating through my chest, the image of the man in the tree with his eyes burned out, and his jaw hanging loosely from his head, flashing through my mind in the elongated silence.
Then, finally, the guide spoke. He told us he’d brought them back to the bus as one had twisted their ankle. For this reason, he said, we should get back to the bus as they will no doubt be more comfortable at their hotel, than they would be, sitting on a bus all evening. He apologized again for the direction the tour had taken, and again cries of, “Jasbek, no, don’t feel bad, you’ve been great,” filled the air.
I myself, did not join in this pandering, my mind elsewhere. Jasbek had not even asked about the other half of the party. A good six of us were missing now. I began to worry once more. My worry turning to terror when I realized the red clay was no accident, looking now, in the moonlight, as we passed through a particularly bright clearing, I could see red clay, though it was, it had been applied with precision, and was in fact a collection of small patterns and symbols, markings I did not recognize, perhaps a local type, almost runic.
His backpack too seemed different. It was bigger than before. It seemed full.
I whispered to the others in my group, mentioning my concerns. How our guide had so far failed to inquire as to the whereabouts of the other half of party. I mentioned the symbols, the bulging backpack.
The French woman mentioned there was something off about the guide. “He seems, different,” she said. “There’s something, je nes sais quoi about him.”
It was a shame, up until this section of the tour, our guide had been nothing but pleasant. I had my mind set on writing a sterling review of not only the tour company, but Jasbek himself, recommending him as a guide to ask for should you find yourself booking the Bravanian Adventure Tour. But now I was certain he was leading us not to, but away from, the bus.
It was at this point, I could see lights in the distance; small fires scattered through the trees. The smell of smoke and burning damp filled my nostrils.
We could hear singing too.
“What’s that?” asked a fellow tourist, their voice wavering.
“Singing,” came the guide’s response.
Stepping into the clearing, I was stunned to see a large gathering of men and women, old and young, of all body types, standing stark naked but for the dry red clay they were covered in. A great pot sat in the center of the glade, steam rising from its surface. The group of naked townsfolk were no longer singing. They stood in silence watching us. It was unclear whether we were expected to join them in disrobing or not, but our guide, I noticed, had taken off his clothes.
Carrying his backpack, which now seemed to be leaking a viscous red liquid, almost black but for where it reflected the light from the burning pyres, he walked behind our group and—I’m ashamed to say, like lambs to the slaughter, we all stepped into that clearing as the naked locals surrounded us, dancing, moving hypnotically to some imagined drumbeat, none of which was even touched upon in the brochure.
The singing started again as the group of locals dancing around us became more frenetic and animated. They pulled at our clothing and hair, pushing their dry clay covered hands into our faces—not to slap, but to feel us, as though they were blind and curious to know what we looked like. It was unpleasant, and it brought with it a feeling of dread.
Beside the pot in the center of the circle was a great pile, a mound of something almost indistinguishable. Jasbek, naked, stood next to it and emptied his backpack onto it. Adding to the pile what looked like two mandibles and various other chunks of meat, some of the body parts tumbled to the base of the pile, while others remained where he’d poured them. The pot bubbled and hot liquid spat and sizzled inside it.
Looking closer, through the errant limbs of the revelers I almost stopped breathing altogether when I saw in that pile at least six other jaw bones, along with other assorted pieces of meat, blood covered eyes and bones—the other half of our group, I feared.
Then, without warning, the locals swarmed in, breaking free from their dance, which had been, up until this point, somewhat structured. They each took hold of one of us—all except for me. I was like a chair in a game of musical chairs; the music had stopped and there was no one left to claim me. In hindsight, I am thankful for this. For what happened next, I was thankful not to be involved in.
They stripped the other tourists naked; the French woman, the two Australians, and the group of South Korean student filmmakers, then began to rip at their bodies. Pulling on collarbones and digging their fingers beneath their skin. I was powerless to do anything but watch as those covered in clay wrapped their legs around arms and pulled them from their sockets. I watched jaws being yanked and dislocated, I watched as hands entered stomachs as blood poured out and splashed across the dirt, until everyone, perpetrator and victim alike, glistened in the moonlight and the coppery smell of blood replaced the smell of boiling meat and the moon, out from hiding, stood apathetically, looking down upon us as we died and were dismembered, deep in the Bravanian woods.
I, myself, watched for as long as my body remained frozen, then ran as fast as I could back in the direction we’d come from.
I won’t go into the details of my escape, my long run back to the bus and my driving the bus back into town, for it was clearly not part of the tour and so, to include it in my review seems inappropriate. It is, however, included in my police report if you are so inclined and have access.
Needless to say, what started out as a promising tour of the Bravanian countryside, turned into a nightmare, which did not sit with my experiences with the wider Bravanian community, who I otherwise found to be very welcoming and kind. Some of whom came to my aid as I arrived back in the town center and fell out of the bus, crawling along the cobblestoned streets upon my return. They took me in, nursing me back to health, cooking for me traditional Bravanian meals, which I was horrified to discover are almost exclusively vegetarian.
I still see that young man in the trees when I close my eyes, I still hear their bodies being ripped messily apart. I can still smell the boiling meat.
One star. Avoid.
