Chapter 4

Terhas woke early the following morning and I lay listening as she rinsed her body with water in the bathroom beside our bedroom. Our hosts had brought us a stove, some coals and two small jars – one half-filled with sugar and the other with a large handful of red tea leaves. When Terhas returned from the bathroom, she immediately went to light the stove.

‘Morning,’ I greeted her.

‘Morning,’ she answered softly, ‘I just washed a small mountain of sand from my hair.’

‘I think I’ll do the same,’ I murmured, heading to the bathroom.

One by one, our companions stirred from their slumber as the fragrant aroma of freshly brewed tea wafted through the room. By the time I came out of the bathroom Terhas had handed steaming cups to everyone who had stumbled from bed and we sat around, pressing them to our foreheads and struggling against fatigue. Terhas remained beside the stove, her cup lying untouched next to her. I could plainly see the pain and misery in her eyes.

Eventually, the room emptied and we were left alone. The others had gone outside to smoke and discuss the next stages of our journey in anxious, hushed tones. It was only then that Terhas began to sob, weeping for all those who had died on the journey, for Assgedom whom she had nursed for so long and who had struggled so desperately against death, even as he thrashed around and tried to throw himself out of the car. I drew close and pulled her to my chest, trying to calm her violent sobs. But she could not stem her tears and wept bitterly all morning.

When we had buried Assgedom, most of our companions had not found the courage to approach his grave, but Terhas had remained close as we covered his body. In silence, she had made the sign of the cross, her eyes wide with grief as she struggled to comprehend the tragedy before her.

That afternoon most of our companions went to investigate the various routes to Tripoli and little by little we were released from the despair that had gripped us and the terrible certainty of death. Thus, life unfolds with utter simplicity. One moment, there seems no way forward, and the next everything is within our grasp. One moment, we are lost in a snake-infested desert, and the next we are wandering the city streets. Either we travel on or we are taken forever from our intended paths. All beginnings and all endings are in the hands of the great unknown, whose merciless ways remain an eternal mystery.

After three days of rest and recuperation we bade Naji farewell, following his directions to the nearest car station as he inspected the damage to his own vehicle.

‘You were a good companion,’ Naji smiled, shaking my hand.

‘Will you continue with these trips?’

‘I’ve no choice,’ he said softly, ‘It’s all I’m fit for.’

In Tripoli, Terhas and I went to live with a group of friends who had arrived before us. I immediately began to suss out the reputations of all the local smugglers, remaining in a state of anxious indecision as to which of them I should do business with. There was ‘Fatty’, known for his reliability and the care he took of those who travelled aboard his Titanics. His reputation extended all over Africa and travellers from Eritrea, Sudan, Somalia, Ghana and Liberia would hunt him down as soon as they arrived in the city. Other smugglers were known for how swiftly they could arrange crossings. Every week, one of their Titanics would leave for the far shore, completely devoid of safety precautions, and likely to sink a few miles out to sea. The city was also swarming with fraudsters who would disappear as soon as they’d conned their unlucky victims out of every last coin. Our final decision to leave came by chance one evening – not even Terhas had planned for it – as we spotted a crowd of men and women clambering into an Iveco truck parked outside our building.

‘Are you leaving?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ one of them replied brusquely, hurrying through the door. I assessed the situation swiftly and knew we must leave. If I remained in my lodgings for one more week, my savings would run dangerously low and I would risk falling short of the thousand dollars required for passage aboard a Titanic. If I was even a dollar short I might never leave.

I hastily grabbed my sack of belongings and Terhas fetched her small shoulder bag, and then we were hauled into the truck, which had already left the main street and was wending its way down a narrow side alley, leading eventually out of the city to cut across several plantations. A black BMW was waiting for us at a junction, and it pulled off as we approached. After a short distance, the truck slid to the left, following a dirt track bordered by dry and meagre vegetation. The truck was old and slow, skidding and swerving along the road, before eventually pulling up next to the BMW in front of a low-walled building.

Two men emerged from the car. The first was short and stout, with a bristling bunch of keys hanging from the belt of his jeans, and large sunglasses covering his eyes. The other man was twice his age, tall and gangly, with sharp features and suspicious eyes. The short one pulled open the truck door and ordered us to walk in silence towards the building. I found myself at the front of the line, my fingers damp with sweat and clenched around the bag I had shoved all my earthly possessions into: trousers, trainers, a shirt bought at the last minute in Tripoli, shaving kit, and a pocket English dictionary.

I hesitated at the door and the tall man gestured impatiently for me to enter. I gently pushed it open and slipped through, followed in single file by the rest of the group. We found ourselves in a large courtyard with eight rooms leading off it, their doors standing open. There was a bathroom to the right and a kitchen on the left. Piles of clothes were strewn across the floor alongside heaps of bags of all shapes and sizes, some half empty and others full, some threadbare and others apparently brand new. A jumble of iron bedsteads leaned against the walls.

The rooms were in a state of chaos too, filled with even more garments and shoes. There were precarious piles of tea cups, kettles and bottles. Broken watches, socks, wigs and used sanitary towels lay here and there. Bulging bags of sugar stood amidst a mess of shaving equipment, fake jewellery, makeup, dirty underwear and empty, foreign-looking cigarette packets. Blankets had been thrown carelessly on the floor, and clothes hung from nails on the wall. I couldn’t understand why anyone would have wanted to hammer so many in, but in the days to come, whenever I grew particularly bored, I would amuse myself by counting their small heads, imagining them to be little flies.

‘Look at all this. They must have been left by previous travellers,’ Terhas whispered, sticking close to my side.

‘We’ll have to leave things behind too.’ I replied, taking great comfort in her presence beside me.

The two men ordered us to gather in the courtyard. We left the rooms and congregated before them as a white-haired man strode through the door, acknowledging us with a cursory wave before going to mutter with his men, making arrangements for the next load of travellers and the boat that would carry us onwards. Wielding a pen and paper, the short man began recording our names, while his gangly colleague collected a thousand dollars from each of us, under the watchful eyes of his boss. In total, we were twenty-five Eritreans and a handful of other nationalities.

As the smugglers moved down the line, I couldn’t help but notice the strange behaviour of one of my companions: his hands were trembling uncontrollably and his nose was streaming as he handed over his fare. These symptoms were particularly perplexing given how hot the day was. The mystery, however, was soon solved as the smuggler handed back more than half his cash.

‘Fake,’ he announced.

The man was shaking like a leaf and looked to be on the verge of tears, and even more so as the smuggler held the notes under the tap and the colours ran slowly from them until they were no more than soggy white paper. He must have known his money was forged, I was convinced of it. Those shaking hands had betrayed him. When the rest of us had paid, the short man folded up his list.

‘You’re not to leave this building. We’re locking the door from the outside. Keep your voices down. No one will come here but us three.’

They left. It was midday. Everyone headed to the rooms, taking shelter from the August heat. I closed my eyes, trying to fight off my nagging fear that we had fallen victim to an elaborate scam. In such circumstances, questions always attack from every side, making sleep impossible. Could the smugglers be trusted – or would they disappear with our money? When would our journey finally end? Would the boat prove watertight, or be no more than a leaky sieve? Would the police discover us, storming the building and leading us away in handcuffs, our money lost? And what of the sea? Was it impatiently awaiting us, ready to offer us up in sacrifice to its god? My eyes closed beneath the weight of these questions and when I opened them after nearly an hour, the heat had not diminished.

I left the room and put my head under the tap for several minutes to cool off. Then I wandered through the courtyard, picking through the scattered objects and trying to imagine their owners. What fate had they suffered? Had they crossed safely, or become fish fodder? Had they even left? Or had they retraced their steps to their homeland? I picked a magazine up from the floor and an envelope fell from it. It was open, and contained a love letter, several pages long and written in English, dated 12 March, 1998. It was addressed to a woman named Malfanita. After several expressions of longing and well-wishing, it began: ‘If this letter reaches you, I beg you will not feel sad or fearful for me. Please do not shed any of your precious tears on my account as I tell of my journey from Nigeria to the shores of North Africa.’

‘My beloved,’ I read in another section, ‘I can keep nothing from you. The mere thought that you might share my journeys gives me the strength to continue.’

I took the letter to Terhas, who was tidying up one of the bedrooms, ready to spread out some blankets. Together we cleared the debris from about half the space, and then I handed her the letter. She began to read:

I experienced death for the first time in the desert. I was travelling with a group of men who spoke a language I couldn’t understand. Suddenly, their voices rose and they began to quarrel and occasionally even to struggle. We had no idea what to do. The men spoke angrily amongst themselves and I guessed they were arguing about money because they kept repeating words like ‘dollar’ and ‘franc’. Sometimes one of them would gesture towards us and violently disagree with whatever the other was saying. Eventually, I realised they must be fighting over who would take our money after they had robbed us.

I waited for a chance to jump from the car as it moved slowly over the sand. I heard their voices suddenly grow louder. Then one of them pulled a rifle from his bag and emptied it into the other’s head. After that, I had no choice but to jump. I flung myself from the car with three other men and ran for my life as the car pulled to a stop. We heard gunshots behind us. They fired several volleys. But all of them missed.

‘My God, what a journey!’ Terhas shook her head, folding up the letter.

The afternoon went slowly by, and eventually it was sunset. No one came to visit, despite the men’s promises of bringing food. When it was completely dark, we discovered that the fuses had blown in several of the rooms. The kitchen was still illuminated, however, and I went in to find Terhas staring in astonishment at the walls and fighting back her tears once again. I assumed it must be the memory of her family, and went to comfort her, but she simply mopped the tears from her cheeks and pointed to the wall in front of us.

‘Read it.’

‘My God,’ I murmured, my gaze travelling over the many messages written by migrants over the years as they awaited their departure. The scribbled words testified to their fears and doubts as well as their particular personalities and life philosophies. Most evident was the candour with which they had expressed themselves as they faced the most crucial juncture in their lives. The writing entirely covered the four walls in a mixture of languages: some we didn’t recognise at all, and some we could understand, or at least identify, such as Arabic, French, English, Amharic and Tigré. Like me, Terhas spoke the latter three fluently. I also knew Arabic.

‘Where will you take me, oh fleeting hours?’ read one beautifully written message in Tigré, dated 1 May, 1999, and signed ‘Anonymous.’

‘How can the journey from shore to shore be so very difficult? It seems so simple on the maps,’ a French hand had written just a few days earlier.

‘Forgive me, my dear Hamouddi,’ came another message in Arabic, which looked to be the work of a woman. When I translated it to Terhas, fresh tears welled in her eyes.

‘Perhaps Hamouddi was her husband,’ I suggested, ‘or a lover? Or a friend?’

‘Or maybe it was her son. Maybe it was a little baby she left behind because she thought the journey would be too difficult. I know mothers from Eritrea and Somalia who did that. What agony their lives must be!’

Alongside the many melancholy messages there was also the odd amusing one. ‘The date of his Majesty’s sea voyage will shortly be announced!’ read one of them in French, translated for us by one of the travellers from Morocco.