Empathy is not a Colour. Chapter 14

The three months of Fargouts absence sped past. 'Time always flashes fast

through ones life when times are good', Kamara told himself. The only times he

was feeling down were when he used the internet to research Fatimas question.

He had promised himself on Fatimas eyes that he would find an answer. Doing it

depressed him and made him happy at the same time. Depressed because he had

to remember the pain, but happy that he was making the effort and learning a

whole new world of communication.



The second site he visited gave him some answers. The United Nations had

posted its report on the diamond trade in Sierra Leone on the World Wide Web.

Complex, difficult to read and take in, he printed a copy to show Odette and ask

for her help in deciphering it. It could have been heiroglyphics for all he knew,

but he did recognise the words 'diamonds' and 'Sierra Leone' and they were

important in the search for his truth.



Odette read the report and there were tears of anger in her eyes as she

interpreted it, precied it for her friends. Around the table listening to her were

Kamara, Franz and Gertrude, Abdu and Pinda.



In forensic detail the UN had dissected the international machinations of immoral

individuals and immoral private companies. The illegality of some of their actions

driven by their greed for a diamond's blood soaked promise. Their front man

was another fascist corporal, this one black, leading a group of thugs on the

rampage, not in Europe but in Africa this time.



Foday Sankoh and his RUF was aided and abetted by white business men, fixers

and mercenaries from South Africa, Angola, Namibia, America, Britain,

Lebanon and Israel. The report named them and Odette read the names out

slowly pronouncing them with venom. The Angel of Death's roll of honour

posted on the World Wide Web.



“Chudi Izegbu. Damien Gagnon. John Caldwell.” She interrupted herself to add,

“They represented American companies signing agreements with Foday Sankoh.”



“Michel Desaedeleer. Raymond Kramer. U.S. Army General Robert A Yerks.” As

an aside, Odette added, “I checked up on Yerks myself, I was so suprised to see

a US General named in the UN report. Typing his name into Google, guess what

I found? Not a General Robert A Yerks but a General Robert G Yerks whose

son-in-law was campaigning for him to receive the Noble Peace Prize for his work

in Liberia!”



“What does the report say of Robert A Yerks?” Asked Gertrude intrigued by the

possibility that anybody could be considered for a Noble Peace Prize for work in

Liberia.



“There is a bit in the report that deals with a web of companies acquiring Sierra

Leonian diamonds via Liberia and registered in Monrovia. Liberia was exporting

2.56 million carats when its own diamond fields were only capable of producing

150, 000 carats. When the UN went to investigate these companies in Monrovia

they couldn't find them. The report has helpfully numbered the paragraphs and

paragraphs 126 and 127 reads;



'A physical check of the Monrovia street addresses given by most of these firms

revealed that there were no such companies, and no such addresses. Courier firms in

Monrovia, however, have in the past been instructed to route correspondence for these

addresses to the International Trust Company, (ITC) which in January 2000 changed

its name to the International Bank of Liberia Ltd. Since then, mail addressed to the

companies in question has been forwarded to the newly-established Liberian

International Ship and Corporate Registry (LISCR) which now handles the Liberian

maritime registry. This means that if the companies in question are more than shells,

they are not physically present in Liberia, and none of the diamonds in question were

either mined in, or passed through Liberia. It also means, however, that there is an

intimate Liberian connection with these deceptive diamond transactions.



The name of retired U.S. Army General Robert A. Yerks occurs frequently in discussions

about Liberian diamond transfers. He was involved with ITC and is currently a senior

official in LISCR'.



Odette stopped for a moment to let the information sink in then added, “General

Robert G Yerks is a regularly speaker to Veterans day events at Pennsylvanian

schools in America!”



“Other names that appear in the report are South African's who trained Liberian

soldiers and citizens from Sierra Leone, Burkina Faso, Niger and The Gambia.

Fred Rindel, Meno Uys, Gert Kellder, Faber Oosthuyzen.” Odette let the

names leave her mouth dripping with more venom.



Her audience around the table was getting more and more distraught, more and

more angry hearing the names of those who profit from teaching how to kill and

terrorise. Kamara was staring blankly at the floor trying to absorb the names and

meaning of the report against his nightmare images of Koidu. And all he could

see was white upon white.



Odette continued, “Weapons are flown into Liberia from places like the Ukraine

and then are exchanged with the RUF for diamonds. A Ukranian/Israeli, Leonid

Minin is named in the report as an international criminal involved in east

European organised crime, trafficking in stolen works of art, arms trafficking and

money laundering. He owned a plane that shipped arms from Ouagadougou in

Burkina Faso to Monrovia. A few days after one of his plane's arms shipments to

Liberia the RUF started an offensive that resulted in the raid on Freetown.”



Kamara fled from the table. He had heard the name of the person ultimately

responsible for Mawa's death. Captain Blood did the hacking and killing but a

white Ukrainian/Israeli gave him the wherewithall and white South Africans

trained him.



He needed air and space to juggle. Odette followed him but kept her distance,

watched his practise and the concentration he brought to bear. The love she had

for him keeping watch over him.



The following day Kamara entered the cafe, saw Franz and Gertrude, and glared

at them as if they were not friends but Other and sat at another table. Spurning

even Odette who was sitting with them. He was in danger of doing what racists

do, condemning all by association through the colour of their skin for the actions

of a few.



Gertrude and Odette understood this. Had discussed it for hours, weeks and

months during their studies at the Sorbonne. At times their friendship faltered

so heated had the discussions become. Not talking for weeks before one or the

other would make the first move to mend. One white German and one black

Senegalees came to see in each other that they were women first. In the end they

both recognised that they could be racist so ingrained had been the unrelenting

stereotyping they suffered. And that they could defeat it.



They both approached Kamara and his anger. Odette led the way as Gertrude hid

her worry with a smile for him.



“Franz and Gertrude are our friends. Your friends. They would never hurt you

or betray you. I know this. You can't blame every white person for the ideas and

actions of some of them.” Odette was being blunt and to the point. She and

Gertrude had learnt that pussy-footing around the issue of racism did not help.



“The white people who are responsible for the killing in Koidu are rich. The

majority of white people are poor and are not like the rich. They understand

poverty.”



“There are poor white people? I don't believe you.” Kamara responded with a

childish denial of a truth he knew. He was still angry but Odette wouldn't be

deflected by his stubbornness.



“Don't talk nonsense. I've lived in Europe and seen the poverty with my own eyes.

White people having to beg on the streets for food. When you get to Britain

you'll see the same. Franz and Gertrude are not responsible for what happened

to you or the death of your sister and mother. Now stop talking nonsense and

come and join the table.”



Odette's chideing of Kamara seemed to work. He looked at the smiling face of

Gertrude, saw the sincerity in it and his ugly glare dissipated to be replaced with

his usual gentle and handsome face.



As the three of them started to approach the table, Franz rose and extended his

hand to Kamara who took it with a slight embarrassement.



“Sorry. But the knowledge that white people were the ones behind the terror in

Koidu upset me. I should have known better than to blame you. Sorry.” Said a

sheepish Kamara.



Gertrude kissed him on his cheek to his great astonishment.



“Stop molesting my man Gertrude. You have your own.” Said Odette grinning.



With that the atmophere between the friends returned to a sort of normality.

They sat chatting about the use of mercenaries in Africa, the history of slavery

and colonialism. A lot of what was said was beyond Kamara for the present but

he absorbed some of the conversation and he would remember today, the ideas,

like the UN report making sense over time.



Kamara was more interested in how to get revenge than talk about history.



“What's the use of talking about history. It doesn't stop what is happening know.”

Kamara said, his anger still showing itself in flashes.



“We talk about it and study it to help us understand how we got here and how to

change the present. Somebody said once that 'if you don't understand history then

you will repeat it, the first time as tragedy and the second as farce'. Anyway I

think that's the quote.” Said Franz.



Kamara spent the next few months juggling, loving Odette and surfing the net.

Fatimas question was still with him. The UN report had not satisfied his quest to

know why. Some of the answer was there, the greed and racism of the Apartheid

mercenaries, but the question had become bigger. How to change it. He

searched as obsessive and collected a lot of facts and history but linking them and

making sense of them would take years. Even then no blueprint of how to change

it would emerge, just a general direction to take.



They were all there again. Kamara, Odette, Farouk, Franz, Gertrude and Pinda

sitting around the table in animated discussion, occassionally interspersed with

Pinda's laugh. A laugh that started as a low rumble from her diaphragm, went

through the octaves and stopped short of the shrill. The sound bathed all in its

bubble with grins, competing against the music of Mbalax from the CD and

winning.



Then the laugh went shrill. Pinda was looking at the entrance to the cafe. The

rest of the table followed her wide-eyed gaze with some worry till they saw

Fargout and Madoute standing there. Then they all let out shrill yells.



“You're a day early.” Accused Odette.



“I didn't want you to organise a greeting and I enjoy suprising you.” Said Fargout

embracing his friends. Madoute ran at Kamara and they twirled to the music of

Mbalax.



The hubbub died down eventually, to be replaced with the glow of atmosphere

were friends relax and smile at each other for no other reason than that it feels

good and right. Quiet companionship.



The next evening Fargout, Abdu and Franz took Kamara aside while Pinda and

Madoure cleared and cleaned the tables before the evening rush.



“Have you made enough money yet to extend your journey?” Asked Fargout

resuming his leadership role of the group.



“Yes. I think so.” Replied Kamara wondering what was coming next.



“A convoy leaves from St Louis and goes to Morocco in a month. If you want to

carry on with your journey Franz and Gertrude are joining the convoy and heading

back to Germany. They're taking Abdu as far as Marrakech for him to arrange the

shipping of the computers for this place. There is room for one.........”



“Yes I want the seat.” Kamara interjected before Fargout finished.



“Good. I'll start back at the Kermel in a couple of weeks to give you time to get

organised. Have you got any papers? Passport?” Asked Fargout.



“I've got the paper from the UNHCR that they gave me in Conakry. That's all.”

Replied Kamara.



“Keep hold of that, you'll need it. I know some people who know some people

who can get travel documents. I'll need a photo tomorrow.” Fargout said,

sounding business like.



Kamara looked at Franz and asked, “Can I stay with you till Europe if I've got

enough money?”



“No.” Was Franz' quick and short reply.



Abdu said to Kamara, “Franz can't do that. He can't smuggle you into Europe.

Full stop. But I have a cousin whose a fisherman from a little village near Tangier

who may help. So come to Marrakech and spend some time earning money there

from your juggling before you continue your journey. My house is open to you.”



“Thanks. Of course I'll come to Marrakech. Sorry for asking Franz.”



“That's alright. 'If you don't ask you don't get', an English friend of mine always

used to say. The cost of the seat will be a quarter of the diesel the Landrover

uses to get to Marrakech. OK?” Said Franz.



“Yes. Why are we waiting to join a convoy to get to Morocco?” Kamara asked his

three friends.



Fargout and Franz looked to Abdu and waited for him to answer.



“It's a story of Western Sahara and international deceit. Are you sure you want to

hear this Kamara?” Abdu obviously had difficulty with the story he was about to

relay and would prefer not to.



“Come on Abdu. No shirking.” Fargout encouraged.



“The Polisario Front had been fighting the Spanish colonials when the Spanish

decided to relinguish their control of the country.” Continued Abdu stealing

himself to criticising his country again.



“In Nov 1975, the year of my birth, Morocco organised what was called the

'Green March'. 350, 000 Moroccans marched into Western Sahara as cover for a

military invasion to annexe the northern 2/3rds of the country. Mauritainia

claimed the southern 1/3rd.



“Secret talks were held between Spain, Mauritainia and Morocco where Spain

agreed to Morocco and Mauritainia taking control of Western Sahara. The

agreement was signed five days after the 'Green March' and is called the Madrid

Accords. It has never been recognised by the United Nations. Mauritania has

since given up all claims on Western Sahara and Morocco now controls all of the

country. The Polisario Front has been struggling against Morocco ever since.



“In the 1980's Morocco built a wall, a sand berm over 1, 500km long and 10metres

high that sealed off 80% of the country. It's been seeded with landmines. About

the same time as the Berm was being built, The Times of London published a

world atlas that disappeared Western Sahara. In Argentina or Chile they

disappeared people. In Africa whole countries.”



“No digressions to Argentina or Chile. Keep to Morocco.” Said Fargout.



“OK. OK. The Polisario Front still operate in the area occassionally but the

Moroccan authorities think that a military escort isn't needed anymore. They

were a few years ago. Convoys were regularly attacked on the route when

without an escort. But we still need a convoy and a guide to cope with the

difficulties that the desert in Western Sahara brings. There are sand traps

everywhere and vehicles will have to be hauled out at some point. Safety in

numbers in the desert.”



“The story is much more complex than that, but I think it covers the main points

and I can explain more in Marrakech.” He finished, looking to Fargout and Franz

for their approval.



“Well done Abdu. We know its hard to be critical of your own country, but

when its wrong its wrong, and you have to say so.” Said Franz hugging his friend.



Kamara had just been taught that to understand your world, your country, your

time, you have to be critical toward it, toward them. To ask difficult questions,

voice difficult discoveries and difficult answers. But the rewards are sweet.



“Pinda has arranged a room for you at her place for the next month so that

Madoure can have his own room back. I think he has had enough of sharing with

his father.” Said Fargout to Kamara.



“He snores to much.” Chided Madoure of his father as he walked past juggling

three glasses to Pinda's great consternation.



“Madoure stop that, put them down and clear the tables properly.” She

demanded.



It was coming thick and fast to Kamara and he was having difficulty in taking it all

in.



“So Morocco is also a stealer of other peoples land. It's not just the white

Europeans? And I'm to stay at Pinda's?” He asked more to himself than the

others.



“You're learning.” Said Odette as she strolled over assuming the men had finished

now they were laughing at Madoure's cheek to his father.



“Come with me to the gallery. I want to show you something on the Net.” She

said to Kamara. Odette only had a month left to spend with him. She didn't know

if she would see him again and wanted as much of that time with him as possible.



Fargout, Franz and Abdu looked at each other knowingly, smiled and walked

away, left the lovers to leave the cafe.



For Odette the next month flew past, yet for Kamara it dragged. One dreaded

the coming of the day of leaving, the other champed on the bit.



The day arrived and as arranged they met at the cafe. The centre of Kamara's life

in Dakar. The world and his friends for the time he was there. It was a big

turnout to say goodbye. The regulars at the cafe, business friends of Abdu,

cinefile friends of Franz and Gertrude. Even a few stallholders from the markets

that Kamara had performed at turned up to say goodbye, leaving their stalls to

family to look after for a few hours.



Madoute walked up to him with a box in his hands, “I bought his in France and

thought you needed a new one.” He said extending his arms.



To Kamara's astonishment he was handed a brand new Derby hat. He hugged

Madoure wanting to pass the feeling of gratitude he had for the boy through his

touch. The hug only lasted seconds, not long enough for Madoure to get

embarrassed as boys his age usually do when confronted with affection. Odette

had snatched the old Derby from Kamara's head.



“That's mine now.” She said.



The night before Fargout had given him his new identity papers. Forgeries of

course but with the name Kamara. After dismissing Kamara's offer to pay,

Fargout also gave him some phone numbers of members of the troupe he worked

with in France. He thought they might correspond to Kamara's route through the

country.



“Just in case.” He had told Kamara. “I've already told them a juggler may be

coming their way en route to Britain and if he does to welcome him.”



Fargout didn't say anything to Kamara before he boarded the Landrover, just

shook his hand, turned and left with Madoure heading back inside the cafe as

Pinda came hurrying out, carrying a big box.



“Don't forget this.” She called to the four travellers.



“Whats that?” Asked Gertrude, “We've packed everything.”



“Just a few things to snack on the way. Don't open it till you leave Saint Louis.”

Pinda demanded as she gave the box to Franz to try and find a place to store it.

Franz found a place with difficulty then turned took her hand and kissed it with a

show of bravado chivalry. Gertrude kissed her cheek. Farouk shook her hand and

embraced her. Kamara took off his new hat rolled it along his left arm, across

his shoulders, down his right arm to his hand and in a flourish he bowed medieval

deep before Pinda. When he rose he quickly pecked her on the cheek to her great

glee.



Odette and Kamara, wearing their Derby hats looking like twins, merely starred

at each other with smiles on their faces. They had said their goodbyes the night

before.



The sound of the engine starting drew Fargout from the cafe to wave goodbye.

The Landrover looked overloaded as it pulled away. The roof rack piled high and

the sides loaded with jerry cans of diesel and water. A picture from a safari film,

but without the guns.



“Come Odette. He will be back. He will find the English weather and the English

people cold to his plight and his search.” Said Fargout as he put his arm around

her and started to head back into the cafe.



“I know that.” She replied with absolute certainty and damp eyes.



The road to Saint Louis was uneventful, as uneventful as only the roads of Senegal

can be uneventful. Just three heart stopping moments with trucks hammering

towards them in the centre of the road.



Uneventful except for the scenery. Miles and miles of baobab forest, Kamara's

favourite, his most sacred tree flashed past and marched as escort toward Saint

Louis. Thinning out the nearer they got to Saint Louis. Flashing trees and flashing

images filled Kamara's mind. The good, the bad in no coherent order flashed

behind his eyes.



It had been a year since fleeing Koidu and the time between remembering the

horrors were getting longer, being crowded out by the new and the good. Dakar

had been good for him. New friends. New knowledge. New skills. New love.

A more confident Kamara in the leaving. The city had opened him up, allowed

some answers to enter.



The arc of light and Fatimas question were still with him. He had accepted now

that the arc of light would always be there but the guilt of seeing a 'terrible

beauty' had been set aside and left behind. Odette had taught him that. The time

he spent in the gallery with her, looking and talking about the exhibits

surrounding them helped him in ways of seeing. Once she showed him a

photograph of Guernica.



For the next hour he had sat, eyes transfixed. While he looked, Odette spoke

of the paintings history, the story of the Basque town Gernika, the Spanish civil

war and the painter - Picasso. No questions came from Kamara. For all Odette

knew the words she spoke weren't registering but she kept talking all the same.



She talked of how the town of Gernika had been destroyed from the air by the

German Airforce supporting Franco's fascist assault on democracy. The straffing

of those fleeing the bombing. The fire storm that destroyed 80% of the town,

the cultural heart of the Basque. That it was deliberately done to terrorise the

the Basque and all of Spain. How the picture's interpretations depended on ones

political position. It was 'degenerate art' to the fascists or 'truth' in Spain for the

left. That the painting is now considered the most important work of art of the

twentieth century. How it was painted in Paris, toured Europe and America and

only went 'home' to Spain 60 years after its birth.



The hour he spent transfixed seemed like a second. He was trapped by the power

of the image, the anguish and terror of a horse, the pointed tongued pain of

bereaved mothers, the dismembered soldier mirroring Kamara's fractured mind

when in the Baobab of Koidu. Picasso's free association of ideas and symbols that

flow through the work flowed through Kamara. He had been to Gernika and he

had seen. Picasso had been to Koidu and had seen.



With a start he looked at Odette. She had been shaking him to get his attention,

“Kamara, Kamara.”



“Ugh. What?” He said.



“You've been there an hour starring at Guernica.” Odette smiled.



“A terrible beauty.” He whispered.



“If you think the photograph is powerful, then you have to go to Madrid on your

way to England and see, feel the painting itself. I stood in front of it for 2 hours.

All around me Spanish people stood and cried. It is amazing. Come on. It's time

to shut the gallery.”



His day-dreaming lasted till they arrived at their first camp site, 14 miles south of

Saint Louis, and the place to meet the other vehicles.



No one in the landrover had said very much since leaving Dakar. They were all

with the memories of their friends and good times in the city. Remembering

them now when fresh as an aide to remembering later.



The convoy was only four vehicles. A tarpaulined truck, a Japanese four wheel

drive, a Mercedes van and the Landrover. They had been assured that by the time

they got to the Mauritanian/Western Sahara border the convoy would be forty.



The convoy crossed the border by the Dam route just north of Saint Louis. They

had been warned off the Rosso ferry crossing. The local mafia had control of it

and were extracting exorbitant bribes to cross. Kamara had no problems with his

papers but he still had to fork out a sizable amount of his stash to get through.

He was lucky. Later he found out that it would have taken all his money to have

gone by the Rosso ferry. The bored border guards just gave their papers a

cursory glance, pocketed the money and waved the Landrover on. They checked

the back of the truck and inside the van more out of personal curiosity than

official necesessity.




The route from the border was rough, a dreadful track made better by the

scenery. They skirted to the Parc des oiseaux du Djoudj. A world of birds. A

UNESCO world heritage site. Water fowl, waders and insect eaters migrating

from the north. 400 different species of bird. The Goliath Heron, Red Throated

Bee-eater, whatever. The colour of swirling flocks and the noise combined to

distraction. Franz was driving and cursed occassionally, his concentration on the

road getting in the way of his enjoying the beauties. Gertrude, Abdu and Kamara

“oohed” and “arghed” in unison until Gertrude went “Ugh. Schrecklich.” She'd

seen an ugly Maribou Stork take a giant frog.




They made Nouakchott that night. The scenary had got more and more arid and

the population thinned the further they travelled from Senegal. A land of sand and

rock and dull tones till they reached the Mauritanian capital.



Regular camp sites had been set up in the city. Basically collection points for

travellers to pick up convoys going north and learn the latest news from people

travelling south. They stayed in Nouakchott for two days while a bigger convoy

formed. They spent some of the time checking over the vehicle - again. The

desert could be a frightening place and the only way Franz knew of reducing his

fear was to eliminate as far as possible the risks. Abdu cracked jokes about Franz'

obsessive efficiency - “Is this a German thing?” - as he unloaded the vehicle.

Again.



“Ya. But we go via the beach road tomorrow. 70 miles of beach with a 15 metre

band between high and low tides to stay on, firm enough to hold the vehicles

weight. You know this Abdu, you've done it.”



“Yes. And I've seen the skeletons along the shore. Buses caught by the tide and

all that's left is the metal frame slowly rusting, disintergrating to the inevitable,

the infinite rhythm of salt and sea and sand.” Said Abdu.



“Wow. Poetry. What next Abdu?” Wondered Gertrude.



The wait also gave them chance to visit the Plage des Pecheurs, the fish market,

see the boats hauled up the beach and wondered where they got the wood to

make them. Watch the fishermen and their families sell the catch laid out along

the beach.



“Year on year the catch and the fish getting smaller and smaller as the richest

fishing grounds off the African coast are plundered by factory ships from Russia

and Japan.” Gertrude said to Kamara. “They're just stripping the seas.”



“Diamonds from Sierra Leone, oil from Nigeria and fish from Mauritania being

stolen. At least its not people anymore.” Sighed Kamara.



They had fresh fish for dinner that night.



In the event the beach run was fairly non-eventful except for the convoy that they

passed going the other way. Twelve old and clapped out vehicles from England

with 'Plymouth/Dakar Challenge' advertised on their sides. A Citreon CV2, a

Bedford ice-cream van, Volvos and at least half were Lada's - one all the way

from Moscow. Such a weird convoy required an explaination, so while they

stopped and exchanged news from their routes they ask what was going on.



The 'Challenge' was a charity event along the lines of the Paris/Dakar Rally. The

difference being the cost of vehicles. The rules of the Challenge were that no

vehicle can cost more than £100.00 and £15 to make road worthy. Though it says

Plymouth/Dakar the challenge really went further on to Gambia where the

vehicles were auctioned for charity.



One contestant had raised enough sponsorship for his adventure to build and run

a school in Gambia. There was even money to pay for a hundred children to be

schooled for free for a year.



“I knew the English were mad.” Said Franz, “But not to that degree. Taking

clapped out vehicles and trying to cross the Sahara desert!”



“Don't the English refer to themselves as eccentric?” Asked Gertrude.



“Another word for mad.” Interjected Abdu. “The English have a dozen words for

something where one would do.”



'I have heard that the Inuit - the Eskimos - have a hundred words for snow.”

Gertrude said as her thoughts wondered off on a tangent with the power of the

hash that Abdu passed around.



Kamara watched the 'Challenge' convoy receed in the distance and wonder about

the wisdom of going to England and what was snow.



They had to camp half-way along the beach for a night. They had left late due to a

problem with one of the convoy's cars and the tide had almost caught them. But

they made a safe haven above the high tide mark. The Guide was experienced and

good. An expensive guide, relatively, but with a reputation for safety. He fed a

large family from the work and wanted it to continue now the fishing was

declining.



He left them at Nouadhibou and another guide was hired to take them to the

border with Western Sahara. Back to desert roads once outside the town. Sand

and rock and bruises. They had to part with some more money to the

Mauritanian border guards. The Moroccan border guards of occupied Western

Sahara were easy once Abdu spoke to them.



“Cousin.” he explained when he returned to the Landrover.



“How many cousins you got?” Asked Gertrude.



“As many as me, by the sound of it.” Said Kamara.



As soon as they passed the Moroccan border guards they were on a single track

tarmac road and Gertrude's bumps and bruises from the desert pounding eased.

Driving through nothing. A scape bare but for sand and grit and rock. A

monotony of dull sand with the occassional outcrop of dull rock to excite the eye.



Ad Dakhla was a relief, just. The town was the colour of dull sand. The

buildings seemed as structures molded, up-lifted and formed from the sand by the

desert winds. Fragile and organic. A town with a population of 30, 000 and the

first people they had seen since the border. Their costume the point of

reference, a prism of colours spectrum and genuine excitement for a desert tired

eye.



Two nights later they were in Agadir. In Morocco proper. Days driving in the

quiet companionship that helps cement long friendships.



They had been in Marrakech a week when Franz and Gertrude took their leave.

Headed on toward Germany. They left their address and phone numbers for

Kamara. Just in case he didn't get across the English Channel.



The last word Gertrude said to Kamara was, “Snow” as she pointed to the Haute

Atlas.



Kamara had found a pitch by the time the Germans left. Abdu had introducing him

to another cousin. He was working the Jemaa El-Fna. Doing his tricks and

drawing crowds, mostly tourists, and slowly, inexporably building his money

stash.



He had been there eight months when the world's history took a turn.



Everything stopped in Marrakech, London, Berlin, Dakar, Freetown and New

York. All the television shops in all the towns in all the wide world had crowds

watching the screens in awe and communal horror.



Two passenger planes had been flown into the twin towers of the World Trade

Centre. The films of a thousand camcorders were replayed time and again and

again and again. 3, 000 died. Most in the blasts and the rubble of the towers

spectacular collapse. Some jumped more afraid of the flames than the fall to a

certain death.



A declaration of war from theocratic fascists. A lunatic Saudi sect, a fringe

grouplet, apocalyptic in their interpretation of Islam, had decided that a Jihad

against the modern, the secular, must be conducted. A medieval Caliphat

imposed upon the world. All non-believers must be believers or be beaten and

killed.



That night Abdu and Kamara decided the time had arrived to meet the fisherman

cousin and head for Spain. If they wait to long and the world's feelings of shock

turn to anger, the European borders would be even more difficult to cross.



Two days later he was in Spain. The crossing from Morocco had been easy. The

Straits calm. Abdu's cousin had put Kamara ashore west of Algeciras in a little

cove. The fishing boat stayed offshore by a few miles while a crew member used

its inflatable to drop Kamara on the beach. He got his feet wet.



Kamara was lucky. Big time. And he knew it and was grateful to his friend Abdu.

His obligations were building. Not to family anymore but to strangers who had

become friends. He had heard the stories of the dangers of the crossing. They

were common currency amongst the migrants.



Of all the 'illegal' attempts to get to Spain across the Straits at least 20% end in

tragedy. Overcrowded dingies constantly get swamped and flounder, the cries of

the drowning smoothered by the sea and the shadow of the Rock. Their voiceless

corpses wash up on the shores, the beaches of Spain where white European

holiday-makers sunbathe between the black cadavers. Migrations flotsom and

jetsom not worthy of respect. Still they attempt the crossing. The bravery of

those with nothing to lose but their lifes.



Coming ashore on his own meant Kamara had less chance of being detected close

to the beach and the farther he travelled inland the safer he was.



He collected his emails in Madrid. Odette's read worried. She asked about the

Twin Towers and the feelings in Marrakech. He told her of crossing the Strait

and how Marrakech was in shock. The sympathy Moroccans had for the three

thousand that died, their families and all the people of America. He wrote her

about Guernica.



'The size overwhelmed me. I wasn't expecting it to be so big. The photograph in

the book was a poor reference. I spent an hour there looking at the picture and

at the people looking at the picture. They all came to see it with their own

agendas and prejudices and all left with reverence. It was astonishing. The grey

tones deliberate abstraction to a photo make it superficially simple and easy for

the picture to pull you into its horror, swirl you around it and whisk you into its

recipe before baking you into a new way of seeing. A new and deeper

understanding of what it is to be human and that we all have empathy. That

empathy is not a colour. I cried.



I'm heading for Paris tomorrow. Say hello to everbody.



I have many obligations to you all.



Kamara.'



When she read 'Madrid' Odette yelled to the cafe. “He's in Europe. He's

crossed the Straits.”



Her relief was so palpable no one bothered to ask who but rushed over to read

the email from Kamara. Whoops of joy and hugs alround were the order of the

day.



Abdu had done the business for Fargout and set up a bank of four computers along

one wall of the extension that had been built whilst Kamara was in Marrakech. It

was proving so popular Fargout had to organise a bookings rota for the screens

and shut down the computers in the evening. They custom was disrupting the

evening shows on the stage. The cafe was now busy all day, no slack time and

Pinda was starting to get stressed with the non-stop activity. It took Odette,

Abdu, Pinda and Madoure, individually then finally together, to bully Fargout into

employing help in the kitchen and bring some relief for Pinda. Fargout had been

so pleased and distracted by the success of his investment he had failed to

recognise the plight of Pinda till confronted by his angry friends. It was rectified

within 24hrs of the confrontation and included a rise for Pinda as way of apology.



They didn't hear anything for 6 months. Odette had religiously emailed Kamara

every week but had heard nothing. She wasn't going to worry yet. Writing emails

was new to Kamara and he lacked confidence in his writing. Then;


'Hi all,


I'm in London and given exceptional leave to remain. Its a sort of temporary

asylum and means I can work legally. Starting training as a London Bus Driver

next week. You know those big red buses. Driving them if I pass the test.



Didn't get in touch before because I didn't want to worry you about the way I had

to travel to get to London. Had to leave my juggling equipment in Paris with

Fargouts friends. Will explain all later.



English cold and racist. The ones I've met so far have all been working for the

government. Stuck in detention centre for 4 months being processed. Non like

Franz or Gertrude. I know they're German but they're white as well so should be

some like them in England. I will find.


Love to all


Kamara.'



“It reads like a telegram.” Said Odette to Fargout who had come over when he

heard her screech and was reading the email from behind her shoulder.



“At least its not txt. He seems to be in a rush, busy. Good. Driving a bus in

London will be easier than Dakar. Most Europeans follow the rules of the road. I

wonder how he got through the English immigration laws so quickly? On the

news they were saying that the English had tightened up their rules on asylum

seekers. Made it easier for racist administrators to say no.” He said.



“Don't know, ” replied Odette. “He's there and thats what matters. I hope your

friends look after his equipment.”



She was relieved. Kamara now had a base and, if he passed his bus driving test,

some stability, regularity and a steady income. Space to look for the final answer to

Fatima's question.