Whenever he can, Lionel takes one of Malaika’s cars. He doesn’t drive far, just to the nearest hill or mountain. There aren’t many of these in northern Iraq; the real mountains don’t begin until the border. Lionel drives up as high as he can and gets out.
He views the column of refugees through his binoculars. It’s now almost twice as long as when they set off. It’s hard to believe you’d be able to tell the difference between fifty and a hundred kilometres. It helps if you’ve got used to fifty over the course of a year, and ultimately it boils down to whether you can see the end of it or not. Or, to put it another way: how high does the hill have to be for you to be able to see the end? In this part of the country, at any rate, they’re not high enough.
He didn’t think he’d feel this way, but things were somehow more relaxed before Jordan. Simpler. Nobody believed they’d make it that far. That’s why the crowds didn’t get any worse, even though north Africa is full of people desperate to get to Europe. It’s competing madness. Some try to cross the desert alone, and compared to this the idea of the column doesn’t seem quite so crazy, even if it wasn’t as tried and tested as the good old cross-the-sea-from-north-Africa-by-boat routine. So the column was mildly attractive to those who fancied risking a little more. They could adjust to the vast numbers of people.
Roughly every four to six weeks he would tell Mojo to add another lorry. At some point the burden on Lionel stopped growing. The refugees no longer expected miracles and seemed content with what they’d got the day before. Even the most persistent whingers couldn’t dispute the fact that they’d come fifteen kilometres further by the end of each day. When they reached Jordan, everything changed apart from the magic function of money.
Mojo had established the contact, and he still gets his commission, of course, because the money goes via him. Lionel learned from Mojo that Jordan isn’t just full of Jordanians, but full of Palestinians too. And these Palestinians are fairly well organised, and no less keen on earning money than anyone else. If only because they’ve got bigger projects planned in Israel.
The Palestinians did in fact set up the same infrastructure as Mojo’s contacts had previously. Even the shithouses were back; Malaika and her foundation had organised them via Mojo. This was the funniest thing about the whole business, because Malaika and the television people always acted as if the foundation’s money was nice and clean, and had to be spent carefully and somehow more sparingly than other money. He kept out of it, but unlike him Malaika could have dealt with the Palestinians directly. She nonetheless kept going to Mojo, as if he were the only person in the world who knew how to find shithouse drivers. Mojo reliably took the money and sent a good three-quarters of it to Palestine, or wherever. How long did it take him to earn his 25 per cent commission? Fifteen seconds. In fact, probably more like five, because he’s bound to have the Palestinians on speed dial.
Visibility is excellent. The water tankers and concrete mixers float on a sea of sun, stones and dust. Every so often an unfamiliar vehicle pushes its way through the apathetic crowd, which gives way slowly, then closes the gap again behind the car. To the people in the car it must seem as if they’re driving through highly viscous oil.
Once the car has passed, the people move so uniformly that they appear to be stationary. It was a while before they got this right. It was the most difficult thing they were asked to do – moving to avoid a jam. The trick is that all those camped around a lorry have to be up and gone by the time the people from the lorry behind arrive. It’s no simple feat, and if new trucks join the convoy you can’t wait for the newcomers to figure this out for themselves; you have ensure that at least 10 per cent – and preferably a third – of the group are experienced walkers.
Following the track, the procession gradually fades from view and into the expanse of the plain. He can’t see Malaika’s cars; today she’s filming much further back. But given the length of this column no-one would be surprised if they didn’t see a pink zebra car for days. This does her image no harm at all; in fact it only enhances her popularity, especially with the children. His mobile rings, but Lionel doesn’t answer. You don’t always have to answer the phone. In fact sometimes you shouldn’t, to stop yourself from going mad.
There are so many people – it’s insane.
They’d barely been in Jordan for five days when Admiral Mahmoud told him about the flood of newcomers. These were people who had watched on television and on their phones the pictures broadcast around the world. All those rubber dinghies, the constant ferry traffic. A paltry fifteen kilometres across the tiny, glassy Red Sea, a crossing so harmless that even the toddlers were looking forward to it. Israel ignored them. The pink zebra cars were already waiting on the shore – these, the medical vehicles and the infant transporters were in the end the only vehicles that had to drive through Israel, and they were given free passage. Malaika had sorted it out with a Jewish-friendly magazine publisher, Astrid’s ultimate boss. When people got out of the dinghies and started walking again, the trucks were already in position. Everything went smoothly, but the inflow of additional migrants was so enormous that extra trucks had to be added after only five days. Mojo could barely contain his laughter.
“Say, why d’you think it’s been goin’ so slickly?”
“Because we’re paying you.”
“You guys don’t pay that well. Just remember: the military, the coastguards. You yourself know what you’re shellin’ out. Didn’t you think it was cheap?”
“No, it’s more expensive than Egypt.”
“Yeah, but not much more. Even though there’s no civil war in Jordan and it’s a relatively solid country.”
“So what does that mean?”
“Do you have any idea what’s cookin’ there?”
“There’s no war – we’re not interested in anything else.”
“There’s no war, but there are refugees. Hundreds of thousands of them.”
“And?”
Mojo sighed.
“Right. We’ve gotta country full of refugees. Millions of refugees. You’re there because you can’t go nowhere else, but the bottom line is: nobody likes you. Sound familiar?”
“Look, I’m not stupid.”
“An’ along comes the super-refugee who’s managed to bring one hundred and fifty thousand of the world’s biggest losers ten thousand kilometres. A distance so great that they ain’t never goin’ back. Have you got it yet?”
Lionel didn’t say anything. He couldn’t, because his head, stomach and everything else was now churning.
“They’re goin’ to send you on through, keepin’ you well away from their cities an’ as close to their refugee camps as possible. An’ the more of those refugees you take with you, the less they’re gonna hold you up.”
“But Mojo, how am I going to organise that?”
“Don’t be like that, you’ll manage. Just keep rememberin’ that this is your ticket, amigo. Not only through Jordan, but through Iraq too. So stop your grizzlin’ an’ get some towelheads on board.”
Since then Lionel and his people have been getting towelheads on board. Eighty thousand joined in Jordan alone. He even managed to negotiate a few little concessions, just in time. Extra lorries weren’t a problem, and water was provided for nothing anyway. When they crossed the border and the Peshmerga took over the transport, trucks and supply business from the Palestinians, there were two hundred and thirty thousand of them in total. Almost eighty truck stations. Eighty kilometres.
They integrated the newcomers into the column and kept hold of the reins. As much as he is terrified by the magnitude of this operation, he is comforted by the fact that it’s mainly Africans calling the shots. There are remarkably few arguments, because it’s unequivocal that this is a black set-up. The Syrians, Tunisians, Egyptians, Lebanese, Afghans, Palestinians and Iraqis can be glad that someone’s bringing them along. It’s the first time Lionel or anyone has seen black people so clearly in charge of such a massive initiative. And without debate, for it’s clear the others have never pulled off anything like this.
Now there are three infant transporters in the convoy. As well as the food and water, the lorries also carry a supply of donated blankets organised by Malaika’s foundation. But even at night the temperatures are bearable now. It’s summer, not entirely coincidentally, for MyTV calculated the best time to arrive: before the summer holidays and after the end of the football season. The T.V. executives have been popping corks to celebrate the fact that the refugees’ trek is taking place in a year without the European Championship or World Cup.
They were joined by a further seventy thousand in Iraq. Lionel lowers his binoculars and looks down at the endless worm of people. The head of the procession has now passed his observation point, heading for truck 7, six more kilometres. Truck 5 would be four kilometres; he no longer has to work this out by counting on his fingers. At some point the number could reach three hundred and fifty thousand. Lionel takes a deep breath. It unsettles him still, but he’s less panicky than he used to be. Three hundred and fifty thousand – sometimes it even sounds good.
Two more weeks.
Then they’ll be at the Turkish border.