I had agreed to meet Hakim at the same place we had met last night. I still didn't know where we were going, only that it had something to do with people trying to get across to Europe. We agreed we would meet at seven. At four minutes past seven I arrived, sweating and out of breath. Hakim said he was about to leave without me.
I should explain: I hate being late. I'm rarely late except when I'm going to meet my sister, then I know she expects me to be late so it makes no difference. In this case, I was late because of a disaster with the pipes in the Claridge Cafe. The name reminded me of something from "Catcher in the Rye," and I could even believe the story itself resonated with me now. The place was decorated with red velvet chairs and Art Nouveau chandeliers, and I could imagine ambassadors of the mandate sipping tea here and talking about the restless natives. So I spent hours there, drinking coffee and reading a novel. I was there fifteen minuted before I was supposed to meet Hakim downhill, that would have left me enough time. But in the toilet, before I left the cafe, I hung my jacket on one of the pipes against the wall, and by the time I left it was soaking wet. I tried to put it on. Now my shirt was wet. I thought I could carry it over my arm, but it was too cold outside without a jacket, and the water was soaking into my clothes. I couldn't meet Hakim like this, cold and wet, looking like I'd just been swimming with my clothes on. I ran back to the hotel to drop off the jacket, change my shirt, and pull on my fleece. So, you see, I was four minutes late, sweating and out of breath.
With Hakim I walked along the beach to the point where the sand meets the walls of the port. Most of the length of the port is surrounded by nothing but high concrete walls. There's no security, no broken glass or barbed wire along the top of the wall. It looks like a derelict neighborhood, only lightly illuminated by the weak orange buzz of street lamps. By the time we reached the wall, we were walking in darkness- the floodlights that covered most of the beach didn't reach this far. I could see, to my right, the lights of the city curving with the peninsula that capped off Tangier. To the left there was little to see except what remained of the wall, now crumbling in most places and heaped with rubbish, empty cans of tuna, beer bottles.
The further we walked along the wall the more I began to realise I would have no chance if he decided to attack me. There was no one else around here, only the drunk and homeless of Tangier sat along the road now 300 meters from us. I wouldn't get far if I decided to run in the sand carrying my camera.
There were two things that convinced me to go on.
Three things, if you count my own idiocy which often convinces me to do reckless things. The other two were: my gut feeling, and the fact that I thought I was worth more to Hakim if he stayed on good terms with me. The gut feeling is a rather poor excuse, but when you've got nothing else to go by I suppose it helps to listen to it. Hakim was trying to be friendly, still talking openly about how he makes his money. Most of what he said was lost on me. I tried to concentrate on the words, but I was preoccupied by my circumstances. As he was babbling on, I was trying to decide simultaneously how best to shoot this sequence and whether I was going to be killed before I could start filming.
Maybe it was also the thought of taping something exciting for the film that kept me going without much consideration for what was sensible. I can try and interpret my thoughts now, in retrospect, but it may have been that simple. The rest is just a waste of time.
As for the second reason, Hakim knew I could turn him into the police at any point- if he tried to mug me he'd never see me again, and I could probably get him arrested (ignoring, for a moment, the fact that I would also be implicated in smuggling people into Europe) If, on the other hand, he stayed friendly with me, he could milk me for all the money I was willing to pay him. He knew I needed him to make the film, and I was willing to pay him as much as it took.
The point is, I went on.
After about ten minutes of walking, we were at a point far along the wall. We were walking over huge chunks of shattered concrete and twisted rebar. Some of the concrete had once been wave breakers, I could tell from the shapes. The rest made up the empty shells of a few huts that were built along the wall. I assumed that had once been security for the port, to stop anyone getting in, and to stop anything illegal getting out. Now there was nothing left of it- we picked our way through the rubble as I looked into the Mediterranean below me. The sea was smooth, it was a calm night. But it didn't look like water here. It was, instead, a thick black syrup.
