Green Box

“Tell me again Charon…"

The man lights up a cigarette.

"…how was this city back in the days?” 

“Agadez was quiet. The only noises you could hear were the rumbling roars of the camels slowly walking into the city. Their owners would trade them on one of the markets. Agadez was one of the busiest gateways to the desert. You could smell the dry dustiness of the hot Sahara wind everywhere. People lived an honest life, being helpful and respectful towards each other.”

“And now you have the streets filled with Toyota pickup trucks, explosive noises from motorcycles and buses arriving in short intervals from Senegal, Mali, or Nigeria. No more precious camels. The smell of gasoline fumes your brain. The people lost their respect and their empathy. Mud-brick houses are now holding fear and desperation inside. Did you ever thought, when you were driving tourists through the Sahara, that one day you would smuggle us?” 

“Terrorism and violence brought the prospering tourist industry to a rapid end. We all had to find new ways to survive. I grew up as a Tuareg in the Sahara before I came to Agadez. I know the dangers, the fast-changing dunes and the armed bandits. Many smugglers turn to more desperate and risky roads these days to drop of their cargo faster and to set up more trips. They squeeze the last drop out of their clients before each trip and when they get caught up by bandits, they leave everyone behind and let them die. I wouldn’t risk my and their lives like that, boss.” 

“Sounds like you’re one of the good guys, Charon. One of those who still has a soul. And please stop calling me boss.”

The man with the cigarette receives a message on his phone: „Your team won 24:1. Click here to see who scored.” He flips his cigarette into night. “They’re here. Let’s go back to work, Charon.”

Both men are leaving their dark corner place at the street, overseeing one of many bus stations in the city. Agadez shows no rest. The smuggling business is booming, hundreds of people earning profits in gambling with human lives. Tall apartment and office buildings build out of cement and metal are surging of the red soil towards the sky. They form a new skyline in the back of the mud-brick houses. A new skyline powered by crushed dreams, exploitation and death. 

The two men are heading towards a small house with a big green metal gate. Charon moves the gate to the left and they enter a tiny courtyard. One side is covered with a thatch roof, the other half leaves in the light of the moon, providing you with a glimpse of freedom under a bed of bright stars.

“Tall brick walls are holding fear and desperation inside”, whispers Mr. H. to himself. There are 25 people sitting on cement sacks. Some are directly on the floor. Tired eyes that are filled with horror, are starring at the two men that are standing in the shadow of the entrance. Charon moves away from the entrance, while the other man is stepping into the moonlight to reveal himself. 

“Good evening. My name is Mr. H. and I’m here to help you to start your new life. I don’t care how you ended up here. I don’t care what family member is waiting for you or what you’re running away from. Right now, you’re all in the same situation, in the same 20 square meters yard crammed together. I know that you want to leave something behind. That you want something new. But like everything in life, it comes at a cost. Your agents paid me to bring you to an abandoned port near Tripoli, Libya. From there you will take a boat to cross the Mediterranean Sea.”

Mr. H. reads the message that he received a few moments before and clicks on the link to check on that one encountered goal. 

“Mr. Mahamad, please step forward.” Mr. H. looks up from his phone and puts it away in his small, beige coloured messenger bag. He gazes into the group. 

A short and nervously shaking man in his 30s rises from his sleeping spot in the back. 

“Mr. Charon, Mr. Mahamad trip ends here. Unfortunately, his agent decided to keep the money for himself rather than paying us. Please escort him outside.”

The man in the back starts widely gesticulating that there must have been a mistake and that he can withdraw more funds if he can get more time. The man desperately picks up his backpack and presses it anxiously against his chest, expressing no intentions that he wants to leave this yard. Mr. H. shows no empathy, takes out a gun from his bag and points it at the man. Mr. Mahamad freezes immediately as he realizes the solemness of the situation. 

Charon, who was still standing in the shadow of the entrance, walks toward Mr. Mahamad, grabs him by the arm and drags him out of the courtyard next the entrance gate. 

“Mr. Charon will be the driver of the second car.” 

The group of migrants flinches as they hear a noise of a first punch. 

Mr. H. reminds everyone, that this is the sound of someone who put his fate into the wrong corrupted hands.

The group moves closer to each other as the rough beating continues.

“The next five days, you will only listen to me and you will follow the orders I give.”

Charon walks back into the courtyard while he’s cleaning the blood off his knuckles.

“You can consider yourself lucky because your agents paid up. Your fate and your hope for a new life now lays in my hands. 

Mr. H.’s fake smile turns into a more sinister look. 

“It’s 3 AM. We start at dawn so have your things ready. Welcome to Agadez - your pathway out of hell.”

Mr. H. and Charon leave the courtyard again and the green gate shuts close. 

Every Monday, the heart of Agadez beats faster. The streets are vibrating rapidly as dozens of convoys of pickups and minibuses hustle towards a last stop at the mechanic stores. Smugglers are filling up kegs with fuel and removing their license plates. The majority of trucks drive together - for safety reasons. 

Mr. H. is sitting in his white Toyota pickup truck, starring into the thick red dust that’s being whirled up by the other cars. Every Monday, time runs slower for him as he grasps his fingers around the steering wheel. He once was one of the migrants that are being rushed onto the back of the trucks by the smugglers. Like thousands of others, he shared a dream, sold everything he got and wanted to start a new life in Europe. His dream ended twice, buoyed up in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, facing inevitably death. By good fortune, his boat held a flare gun so him and the rest of the migrants got saved. As Mr. H. drifts further off into his past, Charon knocks at the driver’s window and interrupts the daydreaming. 

“The same thoughts as every Monday?” Charon asks Mr. sympathetically.

“It took me two trips where I almost died to realize, staying behind in this place leaves with you three options. First one; you either give up and wait for death to come. Second; you start working for the devil. And last, one you become the devil.”

Mr. H. steps out of the car to address the migrants who are already sitting on the edge of the pickup trucks with their legs sticking out. 

“During the next five days, we’re about to cross the Sahara Desert. A 9.2 million square kilometers area of sand and dirt which is more or less the size of China. What lies ahead of us are fast changing sand dunes, unbearable heat storms and terrorists who wouldn’t hesitate a second to put a bullet in your head, just to get all of your miserable belongings you have left. We will travel in a convoy of 40 cars. When we leave the town, every one of you has to pay $5 to the army because they will protect us and $7 for desert patrol officials. If you don’t pay you will most like get beaten up by them and you will stay behind. Also, don’t be fooled that the army will actually protect us during this whole trip. The government has seen extreme potential in smuggling people with a dream and they want to make profit off of you. Soldiers will join us for the first hundred kilometers. After that, even for them it becomes too dangerous and we’re on our own. You see the wooden sticks attached to the car frame? That’s your life insurance - hold onto it as strong as you can. If you fall off the truck, we won’t stop. Mr. Charon will now collect the money for the drive. There will be short breaks for shelter and food. You’re one step closer to your new life, just don’t fall off and don’t get shot.”

Charon and Mr. H. walk back to their cars and they start their drive north out of Agadez.

Like expected, shortly after the convoy entered the desert, the army turned around. The smugglers are on their own. After one day of driving, 37 cars arrive at the first stopping point - a nomad camp with gas stations, motels and small grocery stores. 

Mr. H. nervously walks up and down the side of his car and the one from Charon. 

“How many did we lose?”

“Seven. Four got shot, three fell off the truck during the getaway.”

“We’ve never lost that many. These skunk bandits came out of nowhere as soon as the army turned their back on us.”

Mr. H. Turns his attention to the migrants on the trucks who are still shaking of fear. Some of them are covered in blood from the ones who got shot. 

“A new life comes at a cost. You knew the danger of that trip. It seems like that someone looked out for the rest of you. Not as much for the ones we lost. Let’s hope your guardians will stand with you for the rest of that trip. We will continue tomorrow morning. Get yourself cleaned up and get rest.”

“What should we do next, boss?”

“We chose to work in hell and our field of work does not come with chitchat at the water cooler or coffee breaks over tea and cake. Bullets, blood and death may occur at any second. Go and get the cars checked at the car-part depot, I have to buy something for Tripoli. Also, you have to stop calling me boss. You’re independently wicked as I am, Charon.”

The next morning, Mr. H. comes back to the cars with a green metal box in his hand. Not bigger than a briefcase. 

“What’s with the metal box?”

“A return ticket for our precious cargo. Let’s continue and get this trip over with.” 

The smuggler continues their drive. After four more days with no incident, the convoy gazes upon the skyline of Tripoli while the sun sets in.

It’s the middle of the night when Mr. H. and Charon arrive at the abandoned port. Another smuggler at the end of the road is already waiting for them as the trucks are passing a row of rust-eaten containers and collapsed port cranes. Mr. H. picks up his green box and heads towards the smuggler while Charon signals the migrants to quickly leave the trucks and dash to the boat. Mr. H. hands over the box to the smuggler and they both go their own ways.

“What was in the box?” Charon asks as Mr. H. returns to one of the trucks. 

“You know why I didn’t end up dead in the ocean? Because someone was as selfish and scrupulous as I am and didn’t want me to die. That guy who drove me through the desert put a box with a flare gun in the boat because he knew that the other one renting the boat, didn’t fill up the tank. He knew that after we get rescued, we will always try again and again to make our trip to Europe and that we will have to give him all of our funds. No greedy businessmen would want to have his clients dead.”

“So, you think we will see some of them again in Agadez?”

“Fear and desperation fool the human mind into believing in limitless options. It fools them into trusting disreputable people who would kick you of their truck at any sign of danger. It fools you to a better live. But why do you go through all of that? For only a glimpse of a better life? A better life in a country where you’re not welcomed and treated like shit. To take on all of that journey where you will probably end up dead on the bottom of the sea, getting shot by terrorists or left behind in the middle of the Sahara. But the thing is, if you already lived in hell, nothing scares you anymore. For them their current situation is worth facing death at each step of their trip. If they survive the sea, then yes, we will see them again. Because that trip gives them a chance of escaping hell.”

“When you mentioned the options, the morning we started, which one did you choose at the end?”

“The odds are against all of them, but everything is better than staying behind and waiting for death to come, when you can move forward and face it. I am facing the devil every day when I’m looking into the mirror.” 

“What are we going to do when we’re back?” 

“We’re going to wait till the next game result is coming.”

“And then we start again, right boss?”

“I don’t like when you call me that. Just call me by my name.” 

“I’m sorry, Hades.”