Parastatal Bureaucracy

Freedman opened the door and let a man in dressed in normal clothes, blue jeans, white running shoes and a brand name t-shirt. He had long and bushy frizzy hair in which a rat could stay for months undetected. They shook hands and he gave Freedman something in a small box, shook hands again and left. “Now this is your problem?” Freedman dropped the box in my lap. Apart from the transmitter power levels indicated on the label, the four GPS positioning transmitters were much different to those used in vehicle tracking. Plastic coated Neodymium magnets were stored in a separate compartment together with double-sided adhesive tape. A tube of cleaning agent with a smell similar to carbon tetrachloride was stored with the adhesive. The lithium ion batteries were still in their wrapper. “You are serious!” I could not believe that Freedman was so desperate to do something about the situation, even when he has no proof of anything. “I have arranged access to the docks for you. Do not be fooled. That guy that was here has more contacts than you would ever need in your lifetime. You name it, he can get it.” He was positive about this. Freedman described the dockyard in detail, the order in which the ships were anchored and their names. The lingo used on ships was very important and I lost him halfway through boarding as an inspector of some sort. A few attempts later, I had some idea and knew just enough to get me on board the ship after which I was on my own. Freedman had to hold the fort on this side and listen as much as he could and remember as much detail as possible. The ship is now in its second day and the window of opportunity is getting smaller. A knock on the door an hour later announced the arrival of my transport to the docks. It took more than two hours through areas where cockroaches would flee from. The smell of oil and fish was overwhelming and I dreaded the day, somehow I did not trust Freedman anymore. No normal person not having a hidden agenda will send a person to such a rotten place. The movement of people on the docks was at snail’s pace and together with the smell, rigor mortis crossed my mind. The driver took for granted that I could speak French. I shook my head but it did not help much and he pointed to the docks. He gave me a small plastic bag that contained white gloves and a mask. Not sure when to make use of it I took it and started walking towards the gate with the markings G-East followed by symbols that only dock men would understand. There were two guards at the gate. My approach was positive, I walked towards the gate and expected it to fly open, and it did. I nodded a ‘thanks’ and started with the painstaking effort in putting on the white rubber gloves. It was almost as if they had expected me to be there at one in the morning. It was a good seven hundred yard walk to where I had to be. Screeching brakes from a small four-by-four in clear lack of maintenance stopped next to me. “Well this is it. I am at the end of my road. Today I am dead and ready to meet my maker.” My mind turned a blank. Should this man start chatting about the wrong things I would become harbor bait for sure. He indicated me to climb onboard the mobile piece of scrap and made sure my gloves were not soiled in the process. He greeted me in English and I attempted an accent in order to create confusion. “A long walk to dock three.” Either he was informed of me coming there or people the likes of me normally do so. My worry now was that I had nothing to ‘push’ him with. It had slipped our minds. “Ya—thanks.” He stopped chatting, my ploy worked. I looked at my watch in the hope that he would notice my hurry. The brakes on the contraption made a terrible noise, and announced our arrival to everyone that was not supposed to know. I walked at pace towards the ramp and did not look back. Two deckhands walked down the ramp and we met halfway. They spoke in French to me and pointed in the direction of the bulkhead, which was in the opposite direction to where I wanted to go. The documentation only indicated the loaded time and my assumption was that the container had to be close to the side and easy to ‘fall overboard’ from the ship. The containers were stacked seven layers high, the top was humanly impossible to reach from the deck, and made my quest to locate the container and place the tracing device seem hopeless. I was tempted to leave the ship and return to a very cozy hotel room. Somehow, in this confusion my thoughts wondered what Alice was doing. Alice remained the reason for everything I did, consciously or subconsciously. I had to keep going or I would attract attention and I walked on the port side towards mid-ship. Three boatmen were standing talking while having a smoke break. I walked towards them, pointed to my board, and produced a fake document with the container number. The one to my right took the document, looked at it, and circulated the document amongst them and all shook their heads. I thanked them in broken English and continued my search, which was close to finding a needle in a haystack. The port side was lit up from the harbor. Every light created ghostly figures on the sides of the bottom layer of containers. Phantom like stalkers followed my every move. The container markings upwards from the third layer were not possible to see. A vertical gap of three feet between layers offered me the opportunity to scale the containers to the top. It was very easy to do but I could not find a resting place. My legs and arm muscles burned after the fifth layer, which was past the point of no return. I relived the memories of my childhood. This time I had no rope or someone to lend a helping hand. All the door handles of the containers were locked. The longer I climbed the more tired I would become and the less was my chance of reaching the top. I was at the end of my energy and reached the end of my road. I clenched the handle to use my momentum to reach the container’s anchor hole that is situated in each corner. My belt got caught on the handle and I lost momentum and grip at the same time. I was suspended from my belt and with my left foot in the five-inch space between each container. This was more than a saving and I could rest in that position and rest for a while. I noticed that the boat rolled more than earlier and the pendulum effect did not help me much in clinging on for dear life. It was now or never, I made sure of a good grip and unhooked my belt from the handle. The timing of the boat roll was perfect and I used the slingshot effect to get me to the next hole, but holding on was not made easier. A few seconds later, I did the same and found myself grabbing the top of the last layer. With my last remaining energy, I pulled myself up and stood on top of the containers where I asked myself the question: “Now what?” In front of me, in an area the size of football field were containers upon containers and the little me, had to find one! How stupid was that. It reminded me of a little dog chasing a bus. This bus had now stopped and what the hell would a little dog like me now do to this bus. “Bite the tyre and achieve what?” A rumbling sound other than anything else I had expected could clearly be heard—metal to metal. The swaying of the ship changed as the rumble increased. I crawled to the edge and saw the harbor move away from me. The ship was leaving the harbor!