The refugee is trying very hard to walk normally, which isn’t easy as it doesn’t feel normal. He can’t yet tell if his gait looks more natural. The others are staring and it’s making him nervous. He ducks his head slightly, but from the reaction this gets he realises it’s a mistake; he must look like a stork with a hunchback. So, a change of plan: chest out, head up and a broad grin.
That’s better.
He’s got be careful to not start waving graciously at everyone, like the old queen of England.
Should he have done it earlier? He couldn’t have. Not that he spent a long time thinking about it. And he isn’t even sure it’s right. But he can’t change it now.
Then he begins to relax; the grin turns into a smile. He lets himself sink into his new role. They’re looking at him, of course. What else would they be doing? If every day is exactly the same as the previous, any slight variation is exciting. What’s interesting is that his air of self-confidence is eliciting other reactions: less giggling, more encouraging nods. Two children follow him, just like they sometimes run behind cars. More might have joined in, but then an actual car does arrive and the cloud of dust it throws up scatters the children.
The refugee toys with the new situation. A girl catches his eye and he responds with a dance step. She laughs. It feels good. It was right. It was worth it. He should have done this earlier. Turning the corner, the refugee sees Mahmoud.
Mahmoud is squatting on the floor, watching a group of girls. The refugee thrusts his hands into his trouser pockets and stands beside him. Mahmoud doesn’t move a muscle.
“It’s pointless,” the refugee says to him.
“You don’t know that,” Mahmoud says without looking up.
“I do. You shouldn’t be staring like that.”
“I’m staring like everyone else.”
“Exactly,” he says. “Everyone stares at Nayla, everyone stares like you do. How’s she supposed to see that you’re special?”
“It’s got nothing to do with Nayla.”
“Who then? Elani?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“That would be even more stupid. Elani will think you’re staring at Nayla too. And then Elani will think you’re like everyone else.”
Mahmoud looks up at the refugee. “Got a better idea?”
“Why don’t you just go over, real cool, so Nayla starts thinking about how to get rid of you. And when she opens her mouth . . . then you turn to Elani.”
Mahmoud looks at the girls again. After a moment he says, “That’s your routine. You’re a talker. I’m more of a watcher. My strength lies in my gaze. Where are those shoes from?”
Mahmoud hasn’t looked down once. Maybe his strength really does lie in his gaze.
“You can save a bit of cash if you don’t smoke,” the refugee says, offering Mahmoud a cigarette.
Mahmoud takes one and says, “But you save even more if you scrounge.” Still on his haunches, he puts the cigarette behind his ear and turns to the refugee like a car mechanic inspecting damage. “They look nice,” he says approvingly, “they even look genuine. If I didn’t know that you can’t get genuine ones here, I’d say—”
“Of course you can.”
The refugee rolls the packet of cigarettes into the left sleeve of his T-shirt. It’s important to keep them on show; in any camp cigarettes are indispensable, even for non-smokers. Everyone wants cigarettes, if not for themselves then their parents, siblings or for a friend like Mahmoud.
Mahmoud impatiently taps the refugee’s leg. Then he shakes it until the refugee lifts his foot so that the shoe mechanic can inspect the sole too. “Great colour. Who did you get them from? Mbeke? In that case they’re not genuine.”
“That’s for sure.”
“What did I tell you? Not genuine.”
“No. They’re not from Mbeke.”
“Who then? I know Ndugu isn’t dealing in shoes anymore.”
“They’re not from Ndugu.”
“Then they’re definitely not genuine.”
The refugee laughs.
Mahmoud straightens up. “Go on. Tell me!”
“O.K. . . . Zalando.”
“Zalando doesn’t sell shoes.”
“Maybe he’s making an exception.”
Mahmoud looks at him. Nobody knows Zalando’s real name. All they know is that he works for the organisation and he’s German. And that if you ask him a favour, he always gives the same answer. “Why are you asking me? Am I Zalando?” What a stupid thing to say, when nobody knows his real name. Maybe he is the famous Zalando after all.
“So you’re not going to tell me,” Mahmoud says. He plucks the cigarette from behind his ear and holds it out to the refugee, his eyebrows raised.
The refugee takes a lighter from his pocket. If you want to make people happy with cigarettes you need to be able to light the cigarette too. Otherwise they’ll look for someone with a light and you won’t have that useful conversation. They’ll stop listening or forget half of what you’re saying. Mahmoud and he wander down the dusty street in silence. Mahmoud looks at his smartphone.
“In Berlin they’re eating potatoes and pigs’ trotters now.”
“Who wants to go to Berlin?”
“Not me.”
“Me neither.”
“It’s lovely here!” Mahmoud exclaims.
“It’s magnificent!” the refugee says, throwing out his arms. “The most beautiful stones in the world. Free sun. What have they got in Berlin that we don’t have here?”
“Blonde women,” Mahmoud says, then takes a drag of his cigarette.
“So what? Who wants blonde women?”
“Me. To try out.”
“But Mahmoud!” The refugee steps in Mahmoud’s way. “Blonde women are the devil’s own creation. If you let blondes into your house you’ll reap bad luck. You’ll fall ill. Your crops will wither. Listen to your old father: a blonde woman will curse you and all your goats will starve.”
“What luck! My goats have already starved. So now I’m owed a blonde.”
“You’ve never kept goats.”
“Even more unfair! I might get two blondes now.’
They both laugh.
“So, where are the shoes from?”
“I bought them.”
“New?”
“New.”
“Where did you get the cash?”
“You’ve got cash too.”
“Sure. But I’m not going to spend it. At least, not on something as stupid as shoes.”
“On what then? A smuggler?”
“You bet your arse. Only a premier smuggler, mind.”
“Hear ye, one and all!” the refugee mocks. “A premier smuggler, no less!”
“Well, well, well. Someone else with travel plans.”
This is Miki, standing behind his bar on the camp highway. He cobbled it together from planks and chipboard, and a few scraps of corrugated iron and the bonnet of an old Mercedes provide the shade. The original plan was to paint it all one colour. But you know how it is, someone pops by for a visit, it rains, your best friend won’t help because you’re fooling around with his wife, and before you know it five years have gone by and you find yourself waiting for the bar to fall down so you can build a new one. But this one’s too stable for that.
The bar isn’t so small that Miki can run it undisturbed, yet it’s small enough that the gangs aren’t always breathing down his neck. But without gang protection, he doesn’t always get electricity for his fridge.
“Well, I am going to leave!” Mahmoud stops. “I mean, this shithole isn’t everyone’s dream destination.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Miki says. Reaching beneath the bar, he throws an ice cube across the street. “How about a cold drink before the big trip?”
The refugee is about to catch it, but Mahmoud snatches it out of the air and stuffs it in his mouth.
“Thanks, I’ve got one.”
“Come on,” the refugee says, “I’ll treat you.” He nudges Mahmoud over to Miki’s bar. “Two beers. Export. And have one yourself.”
“Thank you, kind sir,” Miki says loftily, placing three bottles on the counter. Mahmoud is taken aback.
“New shoes, export beer. Have I missed something?”
“Don’t know yet,” the refugee says. “Just drink. Perhaps it was a mistake to buy you one.”
“Beer is never a mistake,” Miki says, taking a large gulp. It’s very hot.
“Have the smugglers dropped their prices, by any chance?” Mahmoud probes.
“Yours won’t have,” the refugee teases him, then leans towards Miki. “Mahmoud is saving for a premier smuggler.”
Miki looks at him wide-eyed.
“Exactly,” Mahmoud says. “No way is this man heading off in some dark, cramped lorry.”
“What then?” Miki leans against the fridge. He takes the only beer glass from the shelf and starts to polish it.
“This man is going to settle down in the shade till the smuggler comes. In a white Mercedes. With cream-coloured seats. Then the smuggler springs out of the driver’s seat. He’s wearing a uniform like those men who work in expensive hotels, and he’s carrying a parasol. He runs around the car, holds the door open for me and says, “Please, get in, Bwana Mahmoud!”
“He runs around the car to hold the door open for you?” Miki holds the glass up to the sun.
“So it is written, O non-believers. I get into the car and we cross the border. He drives at a leisurely speed and asks whether I like the view through the window. ‘I can take a different route if you like, your wish is my command, Bwana Mahmoud,’ and I say, ‘No, this is fine. Just make sure we don’t get there too early.’”
“That mustn’t happen, of course not,” Miki mocks.
“Yes, yes, make your silly jokes . . . you haven’t got a clue. You know nothing about Germany. But I do, and let me tell you, Germans don’t like it if you turn up early.”
“If you turn up late,” the refugee corrects him.
“And early.”
“Rubbish!”
“That’s what the smuggler says too, but I say, ‘It’s not rubbish. Think how awkward it would be for their new Merkel if I get there and he hasn’t got my room ready yet.’ So I say to him. ‘Let’s cross the border again.’ And he says, ‘We can cross the border as many times as you like, Bwana Mahmoud. But the new Merkel rang earlier to say that he’s emptied two hotels for you. You have to choose one.’ And then . . .” Mahmoud takes a swig of beer before casually replacing the bottle exactly on the wet ring on the wooden table, “then I say, ‘I’ll take whichever hotel has the bedroom and toilet on the same floor.’”
“Good plan,” the refugee says. He clinks his beer against Mahmoud’s and Miki’s bottles and drinks.
“It is good,” Miki says, “but you’re wrong. If there’s anyone who’s not going to end up in a dark, cramped lorry, then it’s this man.” He jerks a thumb towards himself. “Because this man’s staying here. Here, in the shithole. But you, my dear friend, you’ll be ripped off and your corpse will be shoved out into the desert. On a cream-coloured handcart.”
“Spoilsport,” Mahmoud says.
“But the best thing is: I’m already where you want to be. Because here the toilet is on the same floor, in any direction. You won’t find a floor like this in the whole of Europe: fifty square kilometres. It’s the largest suite in the world!”
“Hahaha!” Mahmoud says. He’s no longer looking at Miki or the refugee, but up at the endless blue sky beyond the tents. His fantasy may have been over the top, but it was lovely, the refugee thinks, and if Mahmoud looked them in the eye he would only see that Miki is right. Too much time has passed since Germany opened her doors. Since they still had a woman as their Merkel. Anybody within striking distance at the time had won the lottery. But that moment’s not going to repeat itself. They’ve been here for a year and a half now, and these months will be followed by many more.
The refugee turns and leans his back on the counter beside Mahmoud. It is afternoon and the faster, stronger children are coming back from collecting wood. When the refugee first noticed them in the camp, they would be finished by lunchtime. But when millions of people need fuel – wood, twigs, dung, whatever – it takes longer to find. Millions, and growing by the day. The equation is simple: new people arrive, but nobody can leave. In the past, the influx of people was moved on, to Morocco, Libya, Egypt, or back to their home countries. But that was in the past. Before Europe closed its borders one by one.
A sand-coloured dog saunters up. There is not much dog left of him, in truth; he’s little more than a fur-covered, panting basket on legs. He scours the ground, his eyes skimming the sides of the street. He can see there’s nothing worth sniffing around here. He stops and turns to the three men at the bar. He only has one eye, but in the camp that’s enough. Nobody beckons the dog, but nobody’s hurling stones at him either. The dog makes the effort to wag his tail. Miki flaps a hand at him wearily. The dog stops wagging his tail and continues on his way. This is how Europe thought it could deal with the refugee question.
When the people came aboard boats, Europe tried to close off the Mediterranean. And when Europe realised that you can’t close a sea, that you can’t even keep watch over a twisting coastline, umpteen thousand kilometres long, they moved the border back onto land, but this time in Africa. They paid Egypt, Algeria, Tunisia and Morocco, and gave some to the Libyans too, although less of course. Because even now they don’t know who to hand over the money to in Libya. But this wasn’t enough for the Europeans. Not least because the north Africans kept wondering out loud what might happen if they didn’t keep quite so vigilant a watch over the borders. It was something they’d learned from the Turks, having seen how much respect and recognition you can earn if you play around with the refugee button. So the Europeans spent more money and drew their next line south of the Sahara. Which is precisely why Mahmoud’s dream of premier smugglers isn’t even funny anymore. Because now there are only premier smugglers.
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” the refugee says, without looking at the other two.
His eyes wander across the camp, the endless camp. He’s often walked to the outer edge. You can do that if you’ve got plenty of time on your hands. On one side you see nothing, and in the nothingness there’s dust and sand and stones and more nothingness in between. And on the other side you see tents and tent-like huts and hut-like tents and tents with patches and tents with holes and abandoned tents and tents bursting with people, and if you’ve nothing else to do you can ponder which view is the more desolate. If you can’t decide, you go to bed and come back a few days later. You could also come back the next day, but anyone with even half their marbles doesn’t inflict that on themselves.
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” the refugee says again.
“Huh?” Miki is making squeaking noises with the glass.
“About the shoes.”
“There’s a shoe secret?”
Mahmoud points silently to the ground. Miki leans right over the wobbly, creaking counter and the refugee feels the plank of wood dig into his back.
“Wow! New shoes!”
The thing about the people smugglers was the biggest lie of all. It was said they wanted to combat the smugglers. But governments can’t combat people smugglers. It’s the same with drugs and prostitutes and alcohol. The only thing governments can influence is the price. Every police officer, every warship they dispatch only ever ends up raising the price, and this is exactly what happened. Prices rose and they’re still rising. Few people can afford the tariffs these days, which means that the smugglers can work less for more money. Not only that, but now they don’t have to give away so much of it because they don’t need to involve third parties anymore.
In the past, when the inflatable dinghy option still worked, it was an organised mass market with loads of jobs throughout Africa. There was always a need for people who passed on information, communicated meeting points, recruited clients for transports, acquired life vests. A boat full of people requires all manner of errands and a skipper. And so even someone without a penny to their name could earn themselves the crossing by being prepared to act as navigator on the dinghy. It was a fair opportunity for all involved, because any idiot can steer a rubber dinghy. But now?
Now, rather than dispatching eighty people in a dinghy they send off eight in a light aircraft. Or an old helicopter. The pilot is an expert. Although the aeroplane and helicopter need maintenance, and that’s another job for experts. These days the smugglers employ only experts. And the now-redundant helpers swell the refugee camps.
“I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s pointless to save,” the refugee says.
“Are you giving up?” Mahmoud asks.
“That’s not what I’m saying. What I’m saying is, saving is pointless.”
“A good attitude.” Miki claps him on the shoulder from behind. “Another beer?”
“I said saving is pointless. Doesn’t mean getting smashed is a good idea.”
“So how are you going to get the cash together?” Mahmoud says.
“No idea. But tell me again how it’s supposed to work.”
Mahmoud falls silent. What should he say? No matter how much beer Mahmoud guzzled, the refugee would still be right. Just as the smugglers’ prices are going up, the chances of earning the money inside the camp are sinking. Even though the camp now has two million inhabitants. Enough for an entire city. But it can never become a city.
For the ailing country that is home to this camp has enough cities that don’t work already. It has a government that wasn’t in power three years ago, and which probably won’t be in power five years from now. It keeps being attacked by two other groups that could just as easily be in power, and in all likelihood will be soon. The only reason the camp exists and continues to grow is that it offers something you can’t get anywhere else: security, however scant.
The security comes from U.N. and European money. In return, the government currently in power helps to protect the camp, to its own advantage: money, development aid and deliveries of defensive weapons continue to flow. Essentially, they’re leasing one of the most barren areas on earth for a profitable sum, which is why the two rebel groups strive even harder to assume power themselves, to rake in their share of the refugee harvest.
As a result the camp has scarcely been touched in fifteen years. There is enough security for survival, but not for a future. You can get along in the camp, like Miki. One day you might even be able to buy a new second-hand fridge for your beer, if you dare believe in that much of a future. But nobody’s going to build a factory here. Nobody’s going to invest money in this mass of tents, which might disappear in a fortnight. And nobody will offer work here, because there are no prospects other than dust and sand and drought.
Here a man can earn nothing, and a woman earns only in the unique way that women have been earning for millennia. But even the most beautiful woman in the world couldn’t earn enough to keep pace with the smugglers’ prices, which the Europeans have ratcheted up by closing their borders. This is true for everyone in the camp, including Mahmoud. It’s even more true of Mahmoud, in fact, because nobody wants to shag him.
“Saving is pointless,” the refugee says soberly. “Because even if you do save, every day the gap between what you’ve got and what the smuggler demands is widening.”
“It doesn’t have to be a premier smuggler,” Mahmoud says.
“Does that make any difference?”
“What difference will new shoes make?” Miki puts his beer glass back on the shelf. “You’re not actually going anywhere.”
“But I walk better.”
And that’s the truth. Most people here wear flip-flops or slippers, and the children wear nothing on their feet.
“It’s not as if you have to walk that far here.”
“But at least walking doesn’t cost anything.”
The refugee reflects for a moment. Maybe he’s onto something, some association he can’t yet pin down.
“Well?” Mahmoud looks expectantly at the refugee.
“Look, I can’t afford a smuggler because I don’t have the money. But I do have time. I’ve got all the time in the world. I’ve been here for a year and a half. If I’d walked only ten kilometres a day in that time, I’d be five thousand kilometres from here by now.”
To begin with Mahmoud can’t think of anything to say. Miki is silent too.
“Five thousand kilometres . . . not bad at all.” The refugee is thinking as he’s talking, or vice versa. He doesn’t know where he’s going with this, but he has the feeling there are other useful thoughts scattered about. “Five thousand kilometres. Free of charge. And I’d still have the money that would have gone to the smuggler.”
“Sure, and maybe a bit extra too,” Mahmoud grumbles. “What are you actually living off on this march of yours?”
“You’re right, I have to eat and drink. But think how much I could eat and drink for the money I’ve saved?”
“They say Berlin’s pricey,” Miki warns, but now he sounds more curious. He wants to know where these ideas are leading. He gives the refugee another beer.
“Hey!” Mahmoud protests. “What about me?”
“You come up with a bright idea and you’ll get one too,” Miki says.
“So, I’ve got a little less money and I’m five thousand kilometres further on—”
“What about the borders?” Mahmoud reminds him.
“I could get guides. They don’t cost much.”
“Yeah right, they’ll be just waiting to give you a special price. Well, if I were going to offer a special price it would be to my premier smuggler. They come back, you see? Special price for regular customers.”
“I haven’t worked it out in that much detail . . .” the refugee admits.
“And then Mr Special Price is standing by the European border installations. They tell you you come from a fabulous country and don’t know just how lucky you are to live there. And that’s that, goodbye.”
“O.K., O.K. . . .”
“Great,” Miki says. “And I just gave you a beer for that!”
“I didn’t promise a miracle!” the refugee says, trying to fob them off, but it’s too late. He had an idea, was interrupted at the wrong moment, and now it’s gone. He tries to pick up the threads, he closes his eyes and wills his stream of thought to come back. Just like dreams you can return to if you do it right.
“I’ve got no money, but I do have plenty of time,” the refugee repeats. “And I’ve got two feet—”
“We’ve heard this already.”
And then the idea is gone for good. Angrily, he picks up his beer and takes a swig before Miki thinks of putting the bottle away again. He does this sometimes. If you turn up to Miki’s late in the day and drunk, you might be served a bottle that’s only half full.
“But one thing’s for sure,” he says. “Whether I save or not, I’ll never keep up with the transport prices.”
“Come on,” Mahmoud consoles him. “It only looks that way at the moment. Maybe prices will fall and we’ll be back on track.”
“They’re not going to fall,” the refugee says assertively. “Europe doesn’t want us. Nobody wants us. And the less someone wants you, the more expensive the journey becomes.”
None of them can think of anything to say to this. But to underline his resolve, to emphasise once again the validity of his initial idea, he buys another round of beers. And while they drink and brood, he is assailed repeatedly by the thought that a unique opportunity has just gone begging.