The Mercedes bus spent five days in a Libyan village with no name, waiting for a new fuel pump to be brought from Tripoli. The inhabitants of the village spoke a Tuareg dialect unknown to anyone on the bus, but Kiah and Esma communicated with the women in gestures and smiles, and managed well enough. Food had to be brought from neighbouring villages, because the one settlement could not cope with thirty-nine more mouths to feed, regardless of how much money was offered.
Hakim demanded that everyone pay him extra, because he had not budgeted for this. Abdul said angrily that he was running out of money, and other passengers said the same. Kiah knew that Abdul was pretending, hiding the fact that he had plenty.
They were all used to Hakim and his armed guards now. They were not afraid to argue and negotiate with him about extra payments. The group had survived many setbacks. Kiah was beginning to feel almost safe. She began to think about crossing the Mediterranean, for that was now the part of the journey that scared her.
Strangely, she was not unhappy. The daily privations and perils had come to seem almost normal. She talked a lot to Esma, who was about her own age. But she spent most of her time with Abdul, who had become fond of Naji. Abdul seemed fascinated by the mental development of a two-year-old: what the boy understood, what he could not understand, and how much he learned every day. Kiah asked him if he would have a son of his own one day. ‘I haven’t thought about that for a long time,’ he said. She wondered what he meant. But she had realized weeks ago that he did not answer questions about his past.
One day they woke to a thick fog, coating everything in a film of cold dew, something that happened in the desert, albeit rarely. They could not see from one house to the next, and the sounds of other people were muffled, footsteps and snatches of talk heard as if through a wall.
Kiah tied Naji to her with a strip of cloth, fearful that if he wandered off he might never be found. She and Abdul sat together all day, with no one else in sight most of the time. She asked him what he would do for a living once they reached France. ‘Some Europeans will pay a man to help them keep fit and strong,’ he said. ‘Such men are called personal trainers, and they can charge up to a hundred dollars an hour. You must look athletic, but otherwise all you have to do is tell them what exercises to do.’ Kiah was baffled by this notion. It made no sense to her that people would pay so much money for nothing. She had much to learn about Europeans.
‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘What will you do?’
‘Once I get there, I’ll be happy to do any work.’
‘But what would you prefer?’
She smiled. ‘I’d love to have a little fish shop. I know about fish. I’m sure they have different kinds in France, but it won’t take me long to learn about them. I’d buy fresh every day and close the shop when I’ve sold them all. When Naji’s older he can work in the shop and learn the business, then take it over when I’m too old to work.’
Next day the fuel pump was at last delivered, by a man on a camel who stayed to help Hakim install it and to make sure it worked properly.
When they set off the following morning, they again headed west. Kiah recalled that Abdul had questioned Hakim about their direction previously, but now he kept his mouth shut. However, he was not the only person on the bus who thought the Mediterranean coast did not lie in that direction. Two of the men confronted Hakim at the next rest stop and demanded to know why they were driving away from their destination.
Kiah listened, wondering what he would say.
‘This is the way!’ Hakim said angrily. ‘There is only one road.’
When the questioners persisted, Hakim said: ‘We go west, then north. It’s the only way, unless you’re on a camel.’ He became sarcastic. ‘Go ahead, get a camel, we’ll see who’s first to reach Tripoli.’
Kiah said quietly to Abdul: ‘Do you believe Hakim?’
Abdul shrugged. ‘He’s a liar and a cheat. I don’t believe anything he says. But it’s his bus, and he’s driving, and his guards have the guns. So we have to trust him.’
The bus made good progress that day. Towards the end of the afternoon, Kiah looked out of the glassless window and noticed the grubby signs of human habitation: dented oil drums, cardboard boxes, a car seat with the foam stuffing bursting out. Looking ahead, she saw in the distance a settlement that did not look like a Tuareg village.
As the bus drew closer, she saw details. There were a few cinder-block buildings and many improvised huts and shelters made of dried-up tree branches and oddments of canvas and carpet. But there were also trucks and other vehicles, and parts of the area were closed off with stout chain-link fencing.
Kiah said: ‘What is this place?’
‘It looks like a mining camp.’
‘A gold mine?’ Like everyone else, she had heard of the gold rush in the central Sahara, but she had never seen a mine.
‘I guess so,’ said Abdul.
The place was filthy, Kiah saw as the bus drove slowly between the huts. On the ground between the dwellings there were drink cans, discarded food and cigarette packets. ‘Are gold mines always so dirty?’ she asked Abdul.
‘I believe that some are licensed by the Libyan government and subject to labour laws, but others are rogue excavations with no official status and no rules. The Sahara is too big to be policed. This place must be unofficial.’
Ragged men looked incuriously at the bus. Among them were a few guards, bearded young men with rifles. Security guards would be needed at a gold mine, Kiah guessed. She noticed a tanker and a man with a hose dispensing water to people with jugs and bottles. In the desert most settlements were built around oases, but mines had to be where the gold was, Kiah reasoned, so water would have to be trucked in to keep the miners alive.
Hakim stopped the bus, stood up, and said: ‘This is where we will spend the night. They will give us food and somewhere to sleep.’
Kiah was not in a hurry to eat anything prepared in such a place.
Hakim went on: ‘Security is strict, because this is a gold mine. Stay out of the way of the guards. Whatever you do, don’t climb over a fence into one of the restricted areas. If you do, you could be shot.’
Kiah really did not like it here.
Hakim opened the bus door. Hamza and Tareq got out and stood with their guns in their hands. Hakim said: ‘We are in Libya and, as previously agreed, you will now pay me the second instalment of your fare before you get off the bus. One thousand American per person.’
Everyone rummaged in their luggage or fumbled under their clothing for their cash.
Kiah parted with her money reluctantly, but she had no choice.
Hakim counted every note, in no hurry.
When they were all off the bus, a guard approached. He was a few years older than most, somewhere in his thirties, and instead of a rifle he had a holstered pistol. He looked over the bus passengers with an expression of contempt. Kiah thought: What have we done to you?
Hakim said: ‘This is Mohammed. He will show you where to sleep.’
Hamza and Tareq got back on the bus, and Hakim drove off to park. The two jihadis often slept in the vehicle overnight, perhaps fearful that it might be stolen.
Mohammed said: ‘All of you, follow me.’
He led them on a zigzag between the makeshift dwellings. Kiah was right behind him with Esma and her family. Esma’s father, Wahed, spoke to the man. ‘How long have you been here, brother?’
Mohammed said: ‘Shut your mouth, you foolish old man.’
He led them to a three-sided shelter roofed with sheets of corrugated iron. As they entered, Kiah saw a sand rat with a crust of bread in its mouth wriggle out through a gap in the wall, tail flicking behind it like a carefree goodbye wave.
There were no lights in the shelter. There appeared to be no electric power.