I waited.
‘All right. What is it?’
‘The Gates of Grief.’
‘That sounds cheerful. What particular disaster are you leading me into now?’
‘The second and only successful migration out of Africa. Sunny climate. Beach views. No crowds. Simple observation. No interaction of any kind. Anything from two days to two months. Cheap holiday.’
‘Sounds good, actually. Yes, sign me up. Anyone else?’
‘No,’ I said, maybe a little too quickly, but he said nothing.
‘When?’
‘Day after tomorrow?’
‘Fine.’
We met outside my pod, Number Eight, two days later. Peterson surveyed it critically.
‘I can’t believe this old heap is still working.’
‘It’ll hold together long enough for you to bump us clear across the Yemen and into the Red Sea.’
‘Says the person responsible for turning her pod into a fireball.’
‘Are you ready?’ enquired Dieter. ‘Or shall we all go and sit down while the two of you thrash out which of you is the worst driver? Trust me – there’s nothing to choose between you.’
Having effortlessly offended both of us, he disappeared into the pod. We followed him in. Peterson ran through the pre-flight checks. I stowed our gear.
Two minutes later, the world went white.
We landed on the eastern side of the strait on a wide plain – part sand, part coarse grass. To the west, an island-dotted sea reflected a deep blue sky. It’s only when you jump back to a time before the industrial age and air travel that you realise how dirty our world has become. In the distance, the coarse sea grass gave way to low, undulating, green hills. A soft breeze blew. Waves lapped gently.
‘Well, this is nice,’ said Peterson, lugging out the cam net. ‘Give us a hand.’
We spent the next hour setting up camp. A cam net stretched over the pod rendered us not invisible, but certainly inconspicuous. And gave us some much-needed shade. There wasn’t a tree in sight. We set up a campfire, made a brew, and settled down to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
We were still waiting two weeks later.
Tim had a glorious tan. I had a peeling nose. We’d practised our swimming, read a few books, explored the coastline, written our logs, and just generally loafed around. Just like being on holiday. We had provisions for three months. We could afford to wait. It did cross my mind that Dr Bairstow had sent us here to get us out of the way for some reason. When I mentioned this to Peterson, he laughed and accused me of paranoia. Which is ridiculous because of course I know the whole world isn’t really out to get me. I’m pretty sure Switzerland is neutral.
Another week passed, but life was pleasant so I didn’t care. The sun was hot but the breezes were cool. Sea levels were a good one hundred and fifty feet lower than today and a series of humps and small islands stretched across the Red Sea like a herd of Loch Ness monsters.
‘Shouldn’t be too difficult,’ said Peterson, following my gaze. ‘Presumably they just island hop.’
I nodded. He was right. From here, it looked easy. Even from the other shore, they would be able to see across the straits to the low, green hills of the Yemen. They had something to aim for. They weren’t just blindly setting out into the unknown.
As living conditions became harsher in Africa, small groups of people set off to make new lives for themselves. Initially, they had travelled north and settled in the Levant. And eventually died out. That line failed. As the Sahara grew even harsher, people began to look east for a way out. Which would bring them here – to the Gates of Grief. To perhaps one of the most important events in all the long story of mankind. Because DNA evidence is quite clear. There was only ever one successful migration out of Africa and every one of us – every single person outside of Africa – is descended from one of the people who made that one crossing. Estimates put the number at around two hundred to two hundred and fifty people. That’s how closely we’re all related. Something we should remember sometimes.
And we were here to witness that single, successful crossing.
We hoped.
We rarely took our eyes off the shoreline, waiting to see the people – our ancestors – emerging from the sea. If everything went well for them, it could all be over in minutes – they’d be off and away and we’d have missed it. Time ticked by.
We didn’t bother guarding our campsite. Old habits die hard and it took some getting used to, but the fact remained. There were no modern humans anywhere outside of Africa. Which was, of course, the whole point of our being here.
Sometimes, however, especially at night, with this huge emptiness all around us, stretching out in every direction, the thought was just a little overwhelming.
Just after we’d cleared away our midday meal one day, Tim was tightening the cam net when he looked across the water and said urgently, ‘Max. They’re here. They’re coming.’