by Tom Vitale
“Let’s get one of these fish. Some shrimps. Calamari too,” Omar said.
“Okay, some snapper, how about four of these,” Tony said pointing at various fish, his eyes wide with hunger. “Some wild dorado, one of these in the sauce, harime, and oh, octopus, I like that too. And the calamari. I haven’t eaten since I arrived.”
I’d never seen Tony order so much food before. This was going to take forever to prepare and film; simply ordering had consumed nearly a quarter of our entire allotted time—and we’d only just got the order in!
“Okay, Tony, why don’t you go have a cigarette while we set up the table,” I said, hoping to keep him separate from Omar before the scene.
“May I join you?” Omar asked.
Fuck! I knew from experience Tony would blow all the good content before we were rolling. It was like clockwork. If I appeared too worried—over directing as Tony called it—that could be just as bad.
“Umm, please try not to talk about things we might want to discuss on camera,” I said.
“Relax,” Tony said. “If we say anything good, I’ll bring it up again when we’re filming.”
Fat chance, I thought. But if we were going to stay on schedule, I didn’t have time to babysit.
“Reda, tell the restaurant we need to scale down the order,” I said, entering the kitchen, where I promptly stepped in a pile of fish guts.
“Okay, what should they eat?” Reda asked.
“Whatever. Nothing that takes too long,” I said, and went to check on the DP’s progress setting up the table.
“What’s the problem?” I asked, seeing that Zach and Todd were arguing over the seating arrangement.
“Even if we put all the drivers in the background, it’s going to be tough to make the place look full,” Zach said.
“It’s postwar Libya, it doesn’t matter if the restaurant looks empty,” I said. “Todd, as soon as you can, please go to the kitchen and try to make something out of the food prep. We’re not going to be able to come back or do it afterward.”
I looked up and saw Damien was staring at me from the doorway. He shook his head, tapped his watch, and said, “Tick tock, tick tock.” I checked the time; we’d already been here for twenty-five minutes! Ack! We hadn’t even started yet! I needed an update on the food prep and to make sure Josh was working on the releases but decided to check on Tony and Omar first.
“Gaddafi regime took all the restaurants and moved them here,” Omar said. “Even the restaurants were oppressed by Gaddafi.”
“Arlp!” I squeaked. “Let’s wait to talk about the restaurant until we’re filming!”
“Oh yeah, I’m so sorry!” Omar said.
Finally, I got word that the food was almost done and the cameras were set up. I put on my trusty IFB, a device that allowed me to dial into Tony’s microphone. We hit the table with only twenty minutes left, if Damien stuck to his guns. When the food arrived, I relaxed slightly.
“Oh, that’s delicious,” Tony said, taking a bite of calamari stuffed with rice. “So how quickly did your life change when the war started?”
“Wow, it drastically changed. When the war comes and goes… you will value life more. Even the dishes that I’m tasting right now, they will taste better,” Omar said.
As Omar relayed his experience fighting in the revolution, Zach was telling me to move the straw that was blocking his view of the food. And Todd said he missed Tony asking the question, three questions ago; we’d need to get that again. I could also see Damien, who saw I could see him and tapped at his watch again. My attention snapped back to the table. Oh my god, was Tony asking me a question?
“Ummm… yes,” I said, having no idea what I was agreeing to.
“It’s like two years, I think,” Omar said.
“Okay… so about two years, only two years later,” Tony said. “This is a country where for forty years you had all power emanating from one guy. Once he’s gone, you’d think it would be complete chaos. But the airport is working, they’re stamping passports. The traffic lights work, okay, the traffic’s not so great, but it’s okay. There are a lot of problems… especially in the last week, and a while back in Benghazi, but generally speaking, this seems to be a functioning society. When you’ve been fucked over so badly by a leader so monstrous as Gaddafi, for so long, I gotta say I’m a little surprised things are going, so far, so well. Am I crazy?”
“There’s a system right now. Kind of,” Omar said. “It’s done by the people. Nobody done it. Not the government. Nobody. People they want something for their children. Want something for themselves in the future.”
“And you think in the next five years it’ll come together?” Tony asked.
“I think it’s going to be awesome,” Omar said, grinning proudly. “Everyone is free to do their own thing.”
“Man, this is good food, you brought me to a good place,” Tony said. Then, looking up at me: “You want to reconfigure for wide shots?”
“Uh… yes,” I said, surprised at how well the scene had gone.
“We have significantly overshot our budgeted time,” came Damien’s voice over the walkie.
“Copy that, we just finished the meal,” I replied. “Zach, can you go outside and get an exterior shot? Todd, finish up any outstanding food inserts. Josh and Reda, double check releases. Let’s get on our way to the next location in five minutes.” I lit a cigarette and relaxed, just a little bit, for the first time in what felt like forever.
“How was the food?” I asked.
“It was fantastic,” Tony said.
“CNN, CNN!” OUR DRIVER SHOUTED as we arrived back at the hotel that evening. Damien had remained silent the entire drive back, and now I could see his left eyelid was twitching.
“This afternoon has made it abundantly clear just how outmanned and boxed in we were,” he said, once we were back inside.
We’d just come from filming at the Bab al-Aziziya, Gaddafi’s ultra-luxe palace and former seat of power, turned unrecognizable pile of rubble. Midway through the scene, militia in several white pickup trucks had surrounded us. They claimed we didn’t have the right paperwork to be there, and the situation escalated to the point we had to flee before they destroyed our footage. It had gotten a little dramatic. The slight twitch in Damien’s left eyelid was not encouraging. “If we’d needed a quick exfiltration, our vans didn’t stand a chance. Our current vehicles are not fit for that purpose, and the drivers are incompetent. The situation could easily have escalated further, and we would’ve been completely helpless. We need to upgrade, or it will be necessary to abandon filming.”
“What are you suggesting?” I asked.
“One of your sidekicks, Hamid, from the Misrata militia,” Damien said. “Bowler met him on the recce and couldn’t help but notice his rather impressive array of toys. The possibility of assistance was discussed should the situation escalate and support be deemed necessary. We’ve checked in with them today, and Hamid has reiterated his desire to lend a helping hand.”
As Josh and I learned, the Misrata militia could in fact provide us with security. And vehicles, brand-new Toyota Land Cruisers no less. Our new friends would be armed to the teeth for our protection. They could be here in the morning. There was just one little detail to work out. It was going to cost somewhere in the neighborhood of $30,000, give or take. Considering all the potential unknowns, Damien suggested to be safe we needed at least $50,000 cash on hand to keep the lights on.
Everything about the Libya episode had been spiraling out of control, including the budget. Due to visa delays, we’d been forced to reschedule the shoot. That had meant new plane tickets, additional security and vehicle costs, and losing nonrefundable hotel deposits, among countless other kill fees. We’d had to cancel a satellite trip to Benghazi. Including Reda, we had a total of four fixers working on the show. Before arriving, we’d been required to double the number of security consultants. But it would be pretty awkward, and ultimately a much larger financial l
oss, if we had to leave the country without a show. Sure, this was going to be a lot more money than we’d ever spent on an episode. But, then again, we were in a much more dangerous place than we had ever been before. Josh called Sandy, our executive producer, back at Zero Point Zero, to tell her the good news. While Josh and Damien spoke to Sandy, I went to update Reda and let him know Hamid’s militia might be joining the shoot.
“Oh my god,” Reda said. “Your security guys are too paranoid! It wasn’t such a big deal what happened today. We were never in any danger, this is just how people in Libya talk.”
“If it’s going to make Damien relax, the militia will be worth its weight in gold,” I said. “That way we can all get back to focusing on actually making the show.”
“I don’t trust these guys,” Reda said. “They won’t be good for the representation of Libya. I got for you Omar and Johar to be in the show. Both of them are already revolutionaries. Why do we need Hamid?”
“Reda, we’ve been talking about freedom this whole trip,” I said. “Revolutionaries who don’t want to put down their guns like Hamid and his militia represent another side of Libya’s struggle for freedom. Also, I don’t have a choice.”
“WELL… THE COST FOR THE MILITIA has been approved,” Josh said at breakfast. “You won’t believe this part: the office wanted to know if the Libyan militia had a US federal tax ID number!”
In addition to not having a federal tax ID, the militia didn’t accept credit cards or travelers’ checks. And Libya being Libya, a standard wire transfer in the amount of $50,000 was not an option either. So later that morning a man with a perspiring forehead, British accent, and pressed blue suit arrived at Josh’s hotel room carrying a duffel bag full of Libyan dinars. We were officially back in business.
When I found Tony, he was outside smoking. Before I could fill him in on the details, I was interrupted by a voice from behind us.
“You should cook for us… I heard you are the best French cooker or something… I’m Hamid, your new head of security.”
So, this was the famous Hamid I’d heard so much about. And “head of security,” eh? Damien was not going to like that, I thought with a chuckle. Hamid was young, probably in his mid-twenties, and spoke with a Libyan-Canadian monotone. His shaved head and the rings under his glazed eyes made him vaguely reminiscent of fat Brando from Apocalypse Now. Hamid had come back when the fighting broke out and had chosen to remain in Libya rather than return to his family in Montreal. He wore spotless olive-green fatigues with matching cap and a color-coordinated avocado scarf. He pulled out a grenade and used it to light his cigarette.
“Have you tried Libyan alcohol?” Hamid asked.
“No,” Tony said with a slightly uncomfortable laugh. “I hear it’s brutal.”
“Yeah, it’s gonna destroy you,” Hamid said.
“We haven’t had a chance to meet yet. I’m Tom,” I said. “Thank you so much for all your help, I really appreciate it.”
“No problem,” Hamid said.
“Yeah, we’re excited about Misrata,” Tony said.
“WHERE’S TODD?” I ASKED. “WE need to wait for him before we start.”
“Well, we did our best,” Tony said, checking his Rolex. “We gotta get going.”
“Let’s begin then and catch him up when he arrives,” Damien said, addressing the crew. “Big company move today, the roads here are known for being treacherous, and we’ll be encountering many checkpoints. Hopefully most of them will be legitimate. If we come up against anything unpleasant, we’re going to drive straight through. If for any reason the vehicle has to be stopped, get out of the car and get away from it if it’s being shot at. Okay?”
“Uh, and preferably on the side—” Tony began.
“Correct, not on the side that’s being shot at,” Damien said. “Like I taught you in Virginistan, endeavor to stay out of the Killing Zone.”
This was a reference to one of Damien’s memorable training exercises. On the second day of the course we ran into a roadblock, and our car started to take fire. While we all ran for cover, Damien, who’d been playing the role of our local fixer, took a bullet to the chest, and dropped to the ground, spurts of arterial blood erupting from his chest. Amid a very realistic soundtrack of screaming and machine gun fire, it became clear the exercise had morphed to a moral quandary about what to do if a member of the team is injured. Risk more injury by helping, or flee and protect yourself?
“We have to go, we have to go now!” Zach had yelled.
“Please! Please don’t leave me!” Damien cried.
“No man left behind!” I shouted.
“Leave the fucking fixer!” Tony cut in. “What’s he gonna do, recommend a good restaurant?”
“STOP!” Damien shouted. And just like that, the simulation was over. “You’re all dead,” he said. “While arguing about what to do, you all got shot up like Swiss cheese… I can tell you the wrong decision was made today… You should have found cover sooner. I can’t tell you the right decision to make in the future. Every situation is different. What I can tell you is that leaving a friend or colleague behind is something you live with forever. If you choose to do so—for your own peace of mind—you’ll want to be able to tell his or her family you did your best.”
It was a sobering moment that put in perspective the path we’d elected to take. And “We did our best” became an instant recurring crew joke from that day forward.
“Also, we have a slight issue in Misrata. We’ve just got word a council member was assassinated today,” Damien said, snapping me back to the present. “But apparently we’re told by the guys from there that it’s not going to result in a big blood feud in the city. We’ll be keeping our eyes on the situation.”
“Wait, what?” Zach said.
“Is this where I get all Geraldo and shit?” Tony said. “I better go back inside and put on the khakis.”
“Did I miss anything?” Todd asked when he arrived.
“We’ve got some much better mitigating measures than khakis,” Damien said. “Our colleagues from Misrata have come up to look after us. They’re going to escort us around for the rest of the show, which is really good news. And they brought some tools to do the job.”
In addition to our three production vans, we now had four shiny new Land Cruisers full of semi-automatic weapons and some badass security. I needed to introduce all these elements narratively and decided a transport beat would be perfect. So I assigned Todd to shoot POV and b-roll and Zach to film Tony. It was a chaotic scene as everyone climbed into random vehicles. I’d be riding in one of the Land Cruisers with Damien, who, in his infinite wisdom, had decided it would be best for Tony to travel with Bowler in the “gun truck.” But once I got in our Land Cruiser, I realized “gun truck” was something of a misnomer. All the SUVs were full of guns.
The highway between Misrata and Tripoli ran along the coast. Turquoise waters of the Mediterranean out one window, yellow sand of the desert out the other. Once we broke free from Tripoli’s gravitational pull, our convoy accelerated.
“You’re aware there’s a rifle behind you, right?” Damien said.
“Yeah, it’s right here,” I said, tapping the gun next to my leg.
“There’s another one behind you as well,” Damien said.
Despite the move to CNN and the more “high-risk” locations, at the end of the day this was still supposedly a food and travel show. It was pretty surreal, I thought. I’d be filming in Copenhagen at the world’s best restaurant in a couple of months, but at the moment I was surrounded by a bunch of AK-47s.
“Umm… those can’t go off if we hit a big bump or something?” I asked.
“That depends on the position of the safety,” Damien said. “However, I’d consider the case of grenades and road traffic collisions to be of greater concern.”
Driving was dangerous everywhere, but our security briefing material listed Libya as number one in the world when it came to traffic deaths per capita
. It cited “obstruction caused by camels on the road, other vehicles, and heavy traffic,” as principal causes of accidents. Seeing the lawless auto brawl on the highway, the concern didn’t seem unfounded. It wasn’t reassuring that we’d left late and were speeding to make up for lost time; driving at night in Libya was considered highly inadvisable.
“Is that Aerosmith?” I asked, hearing a familiar song come on the radio. “Turn it up.” Damien obliged, and sure enough “Sweet Emotion” was playing on the local station.
“I’m not usually a big Aerosmith fan,” I said, looking out the window at the desert flying by. “But right now it’s perfect.”
“It’s natural, at a time like this, to desperately cling to any reminders of home,” Damien said.
A flatbed truck overloaded with camels tore past us at what must have been 100 miles an hour. “Todd! Camel truck coming up in the fast lane!” I called over the walkie. “Get that shot!”
It was dark by the time we finally arrived in Misrata. The city had been the scene of some of the heaviest fighting during the revolution, and it looked the part. We drove past piles of rubble, melted and twisted metal, what had once been vehicles. Everywhere there were bombed out and abandoned buildings, honeycombed with holes from bullets and mortars. A few new brightly lit furniture stores and a functioning restaurant called Stalingrad were an odd juxtaposition to the smell of burn and oil.
“Attention,” Damien called over the walkie. “When we arrive at the hotel, get out of the car and move quickly inside, then stay inside.”
THE NEXT MORNING DAMIEN WATCHED us loading up the vehicles, hands nonchalantly clasped behind his back in what Tony called the “I’m just an innocent bystander” pose.
“Hamid has informed us there’s a large-scale protest being planned for this afternoon,” Damien said. “Unsurprisingly, the local population is rather bent out of shape about yesterday’s assassination. We’ll have to be clear of the War Museum and downtown area before it begins. That will give us roughly an hour to film.”