An out-take from my forthcoming book:
The Wars Beneath My Feet: Adventures in Conflict Archaeology
Our last night in Libya was spent in Benghazi, before flying out the following day. Again, accommodation was provided by a work-camp, but this time it was a smaller place in the city with more of a lived-in feel than the facility at Sirte. Dropped off by our minders we were instructed not to leave the compound, as our safety could not be guaranteed. After a week of shuttling backwards and forwards into the desert we were in need of some liberty, and I for one was keen to see something of the city. Not everyone was up for it, but eventually the how often will we be in Benghazi? argument won them over.
My abiding memory of our breakout is of being in the narrow streets of the souq, a covered market with store fronted alleys crammed with people. We seemed to be the only Europeans in town, and the feeling was quite exhilarating. People were surprised to see us and the first thing they asked was if we were Americans. When we said no, they were delighted to say hello and shake hands, and seemed genuinely pleased to have us there. I am not sure there would have been the same reaction if we’d answered yes.
Like truants returned to school we were all present and correct for our lift to the airport that evening. Then things began to go wrong. We had a lot of luggage and kit to check in, which included the geophysics rig, which wasn’t small, along with the metal detector and a lap top. Before arriving in country, I’d wondered what sort of reception the rocket launcher sized geophysics flight case would get, but it was not to be the cause of the difficulty on our departure. The kit had gone through the x ray machine and opened up, and questions asked about why we were taking it out of the country. Something was wrong and as team leader I was ushered away by a soldier. It wasn’t a big airport, and the drab exterior had all the international travel vibe of a run-down furniture store. Inside it was pretty much on a par with those shed-like depictions of the terminal at Entebbe you see in the movies. I’m not even sure it’s still standing today, as the airport was the scene of a battle during the first civil war in 2014, but even if it survived the building was replaced by a swanky new terminal in 2022.
The walk into the office of the chief of security was to move from the set of Entebbe into a scene from Midnight Express in which a desk fan rattled in its cage as it pushed around bad air loaded with sweat and fear. A lot of the body odour was emanating from an over-weight moustachioed man dressed in sweat-stained military fatigues sitting behind the desk. The fear was coming from a small man standing in the middle of the room, where his feet were half buried in a pile of corn flakes. They had spilled out from scattered cartons looking as though they’d ripped open by a hungry dog. Unmolested cartons of the breakfast cereal, dozens of them, were visible in two jumbo-sized storage bags sitting next to him. Looking at the golden carpet of flakes triggered a childhood memory of emptying a newly purchased pack of cereal into a big bowl and sifting through it for the free toy, perhaps a plastic soldier or model aircraft. Like one of those toys, the pistol worn by the officer looked tiny against his bulk. He didn’t take his eyes off the corn flake guy as he gestured for me to sit on a bunk bed in the corner. At that point my own fear began to eat into the little oxygen left in the room.
Perched on the edge of the blanket-covered cot I watched as what seemed to be part interrogation and part telling off played out in front of me. Every now and again the subject of the big man’s anger would try and get in a few words of Arabic before being shouted down. After what seemed an age, the big man looked over to me.
“You look worried,” he said, taking a pause to light up a cigarette. “You should be, this is serious business.”
It wasn’t clear whether he was referring to the man he was shouting at or the fate awaiting me. Whatever he meant, I was now missing the company of my Libyan friends, despite, or even because, we’d by now decided they were secret service agents.
He gestured to the man shivering in front of him. “He is Egyptian, he came to my country to work, but he takes advantage, they all take advantage. He has been to Malta and bought these cheap.” He gestured with the cigarette at the bags of corn flakes. “Now he will sell them at three times the price.”
I’d been told that migrant workers from Egypt, most of whom came to labour on construction projects, were paid poorly and treated badly in Libya. The corn flake smuggler, if that’s what he was, stood there shaking, waiting for his turn to come again. He didn’t have to wait long.
After another ten minutes or so, the yelling stopped, and after a pause the officer barked towards the door, which was instantly opened. The soldier who had escorted me to the office walked in and with a flick of the hand from his superior the Egyptian was escorted out, corn flakes crunching under foot. That was hopefully the end of his ordeal, but it already seemed a high price to pay for packs of cereal that didn’t even contain a plastic toy. Now it was my turn.
The project laptop was sitting on the desk, and after opening it he glanced at a document taken from us at the customs desk. More time passed, and I guessed it couldn’t be long now before my flight left. He didn’t ask me to stand up as he began with the questions. He wanted to know what was on the laptop but wasn’t interested enough for me to turn it on and show him. Nor did he seem to care what we had been doing in in the desert. More than once, I told him we had full authority to bring in our equipment and take it home. Again, he didn’t seem to care. He looked me up and down and then after closing it used a marker pen to scribble something on the lid. At last gesturing for me to stand he yelled at the door and, as before, the soldier appeared. I walked over to the desk, crunching more corn flakes underfoot. Without saying another word my tormentor handed me the laptop and cocked his head at the door.
Back in the terminal we were joined by another soldier and this one was carrying a slung AK47, which I didn’t take as good sign. My original escort led the way through another door. We were outside, where it was dark and baking hot. To my relief the plane was still there, silhouetted against the runway lights. It was a Swiss Air 737 with its engines running. Clutching the laptop, I was quick marched across the baking tarmac and ushered up the steps. The aircraft was fully laden, and all eyes were on me as I made my way down the aisle, towards Iain and the rest of the team. He was as white as a sheet, and as I sat down he whispered, “We didn’t think we were going to see you again.”
Within a few minutes we were moving and as the wheels left the ground, I looked at the scrawl on the laptop lid. It was just a scribble, not even Arabic script. The guy in the office enjoyed bullying people, and I could only think he’d decided to yank my chain for the fun of it. As we turned out over the Mediterranean I hoped the best for the Egyptian, and as for the security chief? I hoped the bastard choked on his corn flakes.
Crafting Informative and Cohesive Body Content
Within the body of your blog post lies the heart of your message. Break down your content into coherent sections, each with a clear heading that guides readers through the narrative. Dive deep into each subtopic, providing valuable insights, data, and relatable examples. Maintain a logical flow between paragraphs using transitions, ensuring that each point naturally progresses to the next. By structuring your body content effectively, you keep readers engaged and eager to learn more.
