THE stench of sewage was as real and solid as the bodies which shuffled through the crowded street. Try as a visitor might, there was no way to filter out the aroma of the Shanty Towns.
But Jack could clutch hold of a few strangely familiar sights. Neon signs for beer and cigarettes buzzed and blinked from broken buildings. Television dishes clung to roofs, fighting for space alongside clusters of solar cells.
But the noise and the dirt. They were new. Streams of sparks gushed from these workshops onto the street in torrents. There were shacks where grime-covered men scrambled over rusted shells of once useful machinery. Twice Jack saw stalls with trays of replacement bracelets but before he could stop he was dragged on by the crowd.
“Don’t be distracted from our main job dear boy. Plenty of time to explore when we reach our destination.”
They turned another corner. There was no way Jack could remember what route they had taken. The only way to go was forward into the heart of the slums. His cousin had stopped dead in his tracks, causing Jack to run into him.
“Take a look, my young cousin. No bracelet readers, no cameras. We’re about as safe here as we can be anywhere in the world just now. This place will do us nicely for a while…”
Leaving the sentence unfinished, he marched off again at speed. The clashing scents of human waste, ammonia and cooked food was overwhelming. Jack fought to master his urge to fight through the crowd and cower alone in some sheltered space. Every street seemed the same as the last. The crush, the bemused stares and the same throng. It wasn’t a maze of trees and bushes, the walls are made out of junk and people and poverty.
The platform had propelled him out of the city, running off at a new but barely populated tower on the outskirts of the city, where clerks, messengers, house servants and other lower workers lived. Beyond this, and sweeping out almost as far as they eye could see, was the makeshift world of Sanaam, the other city. Here were the vast swathes of makeshift homes created by the thousands of workers who had come here seeking a better way of life. Together Jack and Zarius had found themselves at the edge of this slum sprawl.
Narrow houses and streets were made from the surplus and scrap from the many construction projects in Media. Most were thrown together without thought, held together by good will and circumstance. But between these were squeezed flimsy shacks of sheet metal, anything of concrete was a veritable castle. A sprawl of corrugated structures was spread as far as the eye could follow. Some were little more than four metal plates lashed together with rope. Others had started from similar humble origins but had been embellished over the years to become perilous multi-storey structures with makeshift chimneys and walkways connecting them to other dwellings. These shanty towers leant precariously on their own or clung together for safety. Jack shivered as he saw children playing in their shadow.
But even the meanest shack boasted one convenience; a condenser which could eke the merest few ounces of morning dew from the bone dry atmosphere. In the parched conditions, this daily trickle of drinking water was the difference between life and death in the desert heat.
Zarius headed towards a modern concrete structure which looked entirely out of place in the mass of leaning metal towers and clumsy buildings. Its anomalous presence was reinforced by its sealed glass windows and the hum of ventilation. A faded metal plaque was mounted above the door with writing in Arabic and English:
MEDIA SAND BUGGY ADVENTURES
Underneath this, a neat handwritten sign had been added:
M. Khalid Khan, Proprietor – medina guest house and riad
Entering the cool darkness, Jack’s eyes struggled to adjust. They were inside a stone lobby. In the centre, a boy was sitting on a wooden crate, his fingers picking carefully at a landscape of wires, circuit boards, switches, diodes, and fuses, which surrounded him. Although perhaps a year or two younger than Jack, he sported a ragged moustache and appeared not to notice the newcomers as he assigned the pile of junk into one of several mountainous piles. At the far end of the room was a low desk of unvarnished wood, empty apart from a battered registration book. A voice bellowed from the other room: “I will be with you. Please be patient.”
Moments later, a bearded man bounded into the room. Rolled up shirt sleeves revealed skin the same brown hue as the boy. His straight grey hair was greasy and overly long. His hands were dusted in gram flour. He looked with undisguised amazement at the oddly dressed man and the exhausted teenager standing before him.
“My God! What are you doing here?” The man was so shocked he forgot to bow… or perhaps they didn’t do that out here in the slums? Gesturing wildly, he continued: “You will be shot and murdered and killed! Thieves and murderers all around this place. No! Stay here and let me think! Asif! Get the beast on the donkey-cycle!”
The youth sprung from his seat, scattering components across the room, and scuttled through the rear entrance.
The proprietor continued with his theme: “You must be mad coming to Sanaam. There is nothing for you here. Surely you didn’t think there were still desert tours? People who come here from the city have been killed, lost and frightened. Even the police guards don’t come here.”
His violent bemusement seemed to want some sort of response.
Jack looked to his companion but Zarius was now studying his notebook, a look of supreme serenity playing on his lips. Not knowing why they had stepped over the threshold of this particular house but sensing action was needed, Jack tried as best he could their predicament.
But what to say? That he and Zarius were fugitives from the law in several countries? That despite the dangers of the slums, it was the only place they would be safe from their all-seeing pursuers?
But before he could utter a word, Zarius shut his book and looked up.
“Mr Khan, you seem to be a good and upright gentleman and your concern for our wellbeing is admirable. You will see from our attire and our weary legs that we have been travelling long. I can give you only my word that our purpose is very noble. It is quite correct for you to warn us about the nature of this district but for us the greatest danger is outside Sanaam. We kindly ask that you give us a few days board that we may continue our worthy enterprise.”
It wasn’t the clearest summary of their situation – but it wasn’t technically untrue. Jack was already looking for the door.
But the hotel owner appeared to be thinking. Then finally he spoke: “Very well, we certainly have plenty of rooms here and it has been a long time since we have had any guests. But I cannot vouch for your safety here –”
“We would not expect you to.”
“So… I will allow you to stay for the sum of one thousand credits a night. It was my rate before we had to close this place.”
“One thousand!” Jack yelled. He could have stayed at the Karl Wilheim’s grandest suite for the price.
“For each customer.”
“That is no problem, Mr Khan,” said Zarius rapidly, shooting his companion a hurried stare. “We will be happy to pay that sum when the time comes. Now if you could please show uss our rooms.”
Warming, the hotelier instructed the boy Asif to prepare two rooms. The guests were offered hot milky tea as they waited.
Mr Khan’s reservations about their presence quickly evaporated, as he launched into an elaborate history of his building, pointing out features he had personally had designed and fitted. He had been an engineer who had helped build the rollertube network a decade before. A site accident had put him in hospital and ended his career. With just enough savings, he purchased this new compound in the near desert hoping it would be a profitable business for rich visitors seeking adventure. But as more workers arrived, the slums grew further and further away from the city, enveloping him and his business. Now he serviced the needs of the slum dwellers, ensuring water condensers were working and installing makeshift air controls for the few who could afford it
“There is not
hing here,” their host complained. “No electricity, no water. The authorities have no interest in us. What difference do our complaints make when ten thousand new workers come here each day?”
Zarius nodded sympathetically. But Jack wasn’t listening. In the next room, partly hidden by a curtain, he had just seen the most beautiful woman in the world.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN