Chapter 9

Back in Tripoli, we headed straight to an apartment rented by a group of Somalis and Eritreans. It was a well-known smuggling hub, and most agents sent their workers there to strike deals and hunt down sailors and mechanics. Almost as soon as we arrived, we spotted one of our own smugglers – the gangly one – pushing his way towards us through the crowds.

‘I knew they’d look for us,’ Attiah announced triumphantly, standing up and waving at him enthusiastically.

‘I hoped to find you here,’ the man nodded, ‘But I thought it’d take longer than this. Follow me to the boss – he’s come in person.’

‘What happened to the people who got arrested?’ I demanded.

‘The Kurdish lady’s in hospital,’ he replied.

‘Thank God!’

‘The rest are still in prison. We sent people to try and get them out.’

The boss was in his car. ‘Here’s your money,’ he cut in swiftly, ‘plan’s still the same but we’ve found a new meeting place. For now, take your fares. This man will collect you the day before departure.’ We took our money and said goodbye. Our gangly friend even managed a small smile.

But the day he came to fetch us we had already decided to head for Tunisia instead. Its coast lay much closer to Europe, less than eight hours away. Tripoli, on the other hand, was at least two days away, and the route would take us through sea patrols around the Bouri Oil Field and on into Maltese territory. Captain Attiah alone decided to sail and, with fortune smiling on him, he travelled on one of the calmest ever nights in the Mediterranean. After the smoothest of passages, he and twenty others were tipped happily onto the shores of Sicily. Ten days later, Attiah boarded a train to Norway where he was employed by the manager of a pharmacy. Everything about him fascinated her, particularly when he would forget that Egyptian was not understood in Norway.

‘Piss off!’ he’d yell at her in Arabic, ‘I’m not Atiyy. The name’s Attiah!’

He’d make her laugh until she shone with sweat as he stumbled through the complicated tangle of Norwegian syllables. But after September 11 she caught him praying and, without a moment’s hesitation, triumphantly dialled up the local police, expecting to earn herself some sort of badge of honour.

‘Follow me!’ she commanded heroically, ‘I’ve caught a terrorist!’ The lady was convinced she’d heard Attiah’s – or Atya’s or maybe Atayya’s – name on the news and concluded he must be one of Bin Laden’s relatives, one of his sons-in-law at the very least. The police rushed to the scene but found nothing to implicate him. He was still deported back to Egypt, though, for infringing Norwegian residency laws.

As for me, still in Tripoli, I had taken to sitting peacefully in Martyrs’ Square under the shade of the Fountain of Sea Horses, contemplating the sea in the distance. Visitors thronged around me and I could hardly believe I’d escaped my miserable existence, cooped up waiting for the smugglers to arrive. I was no longer a migrant. I was simply a man. I had two brands of local cigarettes with me, neither of which I particularly liked. But I would smoke my way through them and then try others. So far, I’d found nothing to satisfy my longing for the favourite brand of my youth, which I used to filch from older relatives.

Above me, birds wheeled in breath-taking formations and the virgin clouds were studded with spots of blue. As the flocks weaved together, I imagined they were following the instructions of some all-powerful choreographer, speeding together from all corners before swooping towards the ground and coasting along in dense black clouds. From where I sat, I watched them over the Grand Hotel, heading out to the Mediterranean. More and more joined the dance, spiralling together then forming a smooth carpet, swept along by the wind and spreading out across the square. Meanwhile people were pouring in from Omar Mukhtar Street and al-Shatt Street, crossing to the Red Castle or up to the Souk al-Turk.

Malouk had isolated himself for days in our rented flat in al-Hadbah al-Sharqiah, brooding over his painful memories and bitter disappointments. Terhas and I would stay up with him until the early morning, urging him to talk about anything at all – but he could barely even mention his music anymore. It took many days before his dark mood finally lifted. He was lying in bed one evening and Terhas had brought him a fresh coffee, scolding him for his excessive smoking. Then suddenly his face broke into a smile and he sat up, reaching for his guitar and strumming a song we had never heard before. Its notes were low and its lyrics swift, like a river flowing at night, but with the resolution of a bird returning from distant lands. Its refrain told of a bitter conflict between one people and another. Terhas sat quietly, absorbing the melody with tears in her eyes, overwhelmed with relief at seeing life return to a dear friend she had feared was slipping slowly away.

Four months later, we travelled to Tunisia. A group of friends had gone ahead of us, crossing the border in small groups. Some, I was told, had been arrested along the way. We drove to the border in a rented car which we abandoned as soon as the first checkpoint was in sight. There were five of us: Malouk, Terhas, myself and two Eritreans we had met just before leaving, Uthman Yasin and Anfira.

We huddled together behind some gorse bushes until darkness fell, debating in whispers about the obstacles we might face over the next few miles; the contours of the terrain ahead were still visible in the last rays of a winter evening. A stormy night lay ahead. Thunder clouds hovered over the horizon and forks of lightning darted across the sky. We decided to cross the border between the coast and the main road. Our friends had crossed on the other side, with the desert to their left, resulting in a harrowing encounter with a pack of ravenous dogs.

At nightfall, we set off quickly and cautiously. As we drew parallel with the first checkpoint, searchlights beamed down on us, flooding the area with light. Our shadows grew treacherously long, stretching over the ground and down to the sea, betraying our presence to anyone who cared to glance our way. We froze in terror before throwing ourselves to the ground.

‘This is not a good start,’ Malouk shook his head, hiding the glow of his cigarette.

‘We have to crawl towards the sea,’ Terhas whispered, ‘until our shadows die. Then we can come back in that dark patch over there.’

‘Agreed,’ whispered Uthman.

We headed to the sea, our backs hunched over. The searchlights continued to track us aggressively and we avoided looking directly at them as though doing so would reveal our presence. When our shadows finally died, as Terhas had put it, we returned towards the border. A strong, cold, westerly wind began to blow amidst bursts of rain. And then we glimpsed the first obstacle: a long barbed wire fence with a dense tangle of plants growing up it, concealing everything that lay beyond. With great effort, Anfira and Uthman managed to stick their heads and shoulders through to the other side. With half his body caught in the wire and the other half sticking out behind, Anfira’s terrified voice reached us: ‘Car! There’s a car behind a cypress tree.’ He began to wriggle back, oblivious to the wires cutting into his flesh. Uthman, however, barred his retreat.

‘Onwards!’ he ordered, with grim resolve. And then, without warning, Terhas plunged into the fray and, in a matter of seconds, was on the other side. She tentatively approached the car. In her wake, Uthman and Anfira managed to struggle free as Terhas’s triumphant voice drifted back to us, ‘It’s just an old shell propped up by some rocks!’

Malouk and I hurled the bags over the wire. Then came the moment we had all been dreading, as Malouk eyed his guitar fearfully. We needed to judge the guitar’s trajectory over the fence perfectly, accounting for the force of the wind whipping around us, so as to propel it safely into the three pairs of arms waiting on the other side. If our aim was faulty, the guitar would certainly be smashed to pieces. But Malouk was not confident of his aim and could not bear the thought of losing the faithful companion with whom he had shared so many sorrows and fears and to whom he had narrated his stories and recited his poems. Together they had weathered his country’s tragic fate, watching as she was torn to pieces whenever her mines coughed up a handful of diamonds, butchered by traders, soldiers, thieves and politicians, their eyes too blinded by jewels to see the fatal consequences of their greed on the country’s poor.

In the end, we decided that Malouk should sit on my shoulders so that his raised arms, clutching the guitar, were only a short distance from the top of the wire. He finally launched it over and it spun like a fan, fighting the wind to cross safely to our waiting friends on the other side. Malouk wept and I found myself fighting back tears too, as I began to force my own way through the wires. I soon got caught in a tangle of metal and plants and was forced to retreat, by which time Malouk was already safely on the other side. I tried Terhas’s spot instead but had no more luck and began to feel myself panicking. It took many cries of encouragement – with Malouk yelling loudest of all – before I eventually managed to pull myself free.

For half an hour we waded through muddy ground, across a salt marsh and through a vast graveyard which, as Malouk put it, ‘made my hair stand on end.’ Finally, we entered olive groves and ploughed plantations which made for easier walking. The tall plants disappeared and we could see where we were treading despite the darkness, rain and thunder clouds. We were walking beside the main road again, and whenever cars passed we would stand stock still, assuming the shapes of stunted trees. A short distance further and the lights of another checkpoint forced us back down to the sea. When we returned this time, the farm land had disappeared, giving way to tall, spiky reeds, which swayed in the wind and emitted an eerie whistling noise. The land began to undulate, forcing us into steep descents and even steeper ascents, another obstacle added to the rain, darkness and wind, as well as our own terrified and exhausted state.

Finally, the border town of Bin Qurdan came into sight and we hurried towards it, struggling against a howling wind which forced us backwards as though channelling the spirit of the border patrol into the air around us. We trudged through a scattering of low-walled houses inhabited by shepherds who we later learned were accustomed to thieves, smugglers and fugitives passing through. With fingers on triggers, they followed the movements of any passersby from behind their curtains, waiting for the slightest threat to their animals, cars or other possessions. But as long as one respected their unwritten laws, one was granted safe passage.

The lights of Bin Qurdan rose from the hollow in which it nestled, lighting up the sky. Near the western entrance, we stopped by a seemingly deserted house and, praying it was not inhabited by vicious gun-owning men, we removed our sodden, torn clothes. Terhas changed into a jacket, baggy jeans and trainers, and gathered her hair up on top of her head. Malouk promptly slapped his cap onto her. ‘Let’s fool the world for a while, sister!’ he joked, and we all found ourselves laughing, even Uthman who had maintained a Mafioso-like silence since the beginning of the journey, interrupting it only to urge us ‘Onward!’ and ‘Onward!’ The general merriment continued as I sauntered up to Terhas and stuck out my hand in greeting, ‘Hey brother, have you been with us since the start of the journey?’

‘No – I was more of a “sister” til now!’ was her swift rejoinder.

After changing clothes, we crouched behind some wild acacias at the edge of the road, waiting for the sun to rise. Prowling the city at night, we decided, would certainly attract unwanted attention. To while away the time until morning, among the friendly tangle of branches, Malouk began to reminisce about our time in Tripoli. He’d become friends with a folk group there who’d taught him to play the Libyan bagpipes and dance the Kaska. On hearing of his imminent departure they had begged him to stay – one of the city’s visual artists had even broken down in tears! – but, with heavy heart, he had said his final farewells.

Cars crept slowly by as they entered the congested main road. At the bottom of the valley, the city appeared magnificent in the first rays of sunlight, surrounded by a fringe of vivid green. Malouk, Anfira and Uthman broke cover and headed across the asphalt road. A minute later, Terhas and I hurried after them. There was a police station to our left and a garage on the right with a truck parked outside. We walked across the street with calm, even steps, waving cheerily at the driver. I felt a great rush of joy. Surely we were through the worst.

At that moment, however, a booming voice rang out: ‘Hey you! Over there! Yes you!’ Terhas and I turned while the others continued walking slowly. ‘Where’re you lot from?’ the man barked. He was standing at the entrance of the police station. My mind went blank.

‘Eritrea. I’m from Eritrea.’

‘Mauritania?’ the policeman yelled.

‘Yes.’ I replied, my voice a little louder.

‘Alright then. On your way, Mauritanian!’ he waved us off.

My heart was flooded with gratitude: gratitude for the apparent similarity between the words Mauritania and Eritrea, and gratitude for the policeman’s dubious hearing having transformed us from illegal immigrants into Mauritanian citizens – with full rights to be in Tunisia.

‘It’s a miracle,’ whispered Terhas after we had caught up with the others, all of us dizzy with relief.

‘We hope you’ve saved a little more of that magic,’ they laughed at me, ‘we could do with all the help we can get today!’

‘Speaking of which – have you seen all these flags fluttering about?’ Anfira wondered, ‘They’re making me feel nervous but I’m not sure why.’ We gazed about, at a loss for an explanation, then decided to go into a café on the main road. We chose a table by the window and were brought coffee and water.

‘I guess we’re going to be fighting over this bill,’ Malouk smiled, inhaling the fresh air through the window. ‘This is a celebration! Long Live Mauritania!’ he shouted solemnly. He was soon deep in conversation with our waiter, and I had not seen him in such good spirits since before the police had stormed our hideout back in Libya. They were speaking in French and I could only grasp the general gist of their merry exchange, which was interrupted by frequent shouts of laughter. The waiter also explained the flags to us.

‘It’s the seventh of November – I can’t remember how many years it’s been since it happened, but basically, one guy was dethroned and another took his place.’

‘So it’s a national holiday?’

‘Right.’

‘I was too optimistic,’ Malouk groaned after the waiter had left, ‘we’re not out of it yet. This is the one day when policemen actually do some work.’ After a few minutes’ silence, he then called the waiter back, ‘My dear friend, would you be so kind as to bring us a box of the best tobacco Tunisia has to offer?’

‘Certainly,’ the waiter replied, bringing us an elegant container, wrapped in a wide red ribbon with the number twenty-one printed in the middle.

‘And what does that number mean?’ Malouk asked, making an attempt at small talk.

Looking a little flustered, the waiter attempted a convincing answer.

‘Well, it’s seven … multiplied by seven …’ He paused and his face fell as he realised that multiplying seven by seven added up to much more than twenty-one.

‘Dear me!’ Malouk shook his head at the waiter’s confusion, then smoothly transitioned into what was really on his mind, ‘What’s the easiest way to the capital anyway? Bus or car?’

‘Well,’ the waiter replied, relieved at the change of subject, ‘everyone’s on holiday today. That means traffic will be light,’ then he fell silent for a moment, his eyes wandering across our faces, before continuing, ‘If you want a painless journey, get a driver. Don’t use public transport – there’re always police inspections. Lots of questions get asked … ’

‘In that case, can you help us find someone understanding?’

‘Sure.’ He immediately left the café, and we traipsed across the street after him. He went in and out of a number of shops, and eventually emerged from one of them with a man who was rummaging about impatiently in his coat pockets. From the way he was nodding his head intently to the waiter’s words, we knew he was our man. ‘This is my good friend Ibn al-Surat,’ he introduced him in Arabic, ‘He’s a good guy. I’ve told him all about you. He wants double what you’d pay for public transport. But if you want, he’ll leave straight away.’ We were not willing to lose any time haggling, so we immediately agreed to his demands.

‘Let’s be clear,’ the driver said immediately, ‘You want to travel to the capital and you don’t have papers—’ I went to interrupt him, but he continued in swift Arabic, mixed with the odd French word, ‘—I get the situation, don’t worry. I don’t charge much for hire. And I’m not even licensed to transport travellers myself. If I get caught you can’t even imagine the fines I’ll be landed with.’

‘Enough,’ I said, ‘Let’s just agree to set off.’

He came into the cafe with us, and we bought him a coffee, which he drank in small quick gulps, before heading outside. ‘Finish your drinks. I’ll be waiting in the car.’

Malouk paid the bill, leaving a handsome tip for the waiter, and we piled into the car after bidding him a particularly fond farewell. I sat next to the driver, with Terhas and Malouk in the middle and Uthman in the back with Anfira, who was already drifting into a deep sleep.