Day 3 March 13 2011

Breakfast in the hotel was assured, there was a hungry media pack that included Scandinavian state broadcasters and also folk from the South African Broadcasting Corporation. But I was apprehensive, this was upmarket hotel territory and I was a downmarket traveller. Outside the hotel restaurant I gained thinking time by burnishing my hiking boots on the shoe shine machine. The decision made I strolled in. In the spacious restaurant I sought a discreet word with a waiter near the kitchen. He walked me the length of the restaurant lifted up a plate and fork at the buffet and handed them to me as if the idea of buffet self-service was beyond me. The game was up.
"No...., I want to know how much it costs?"
"It's free".
I set about inconspicuously ladling cornflakes into a bowl with the only available cutlery, a fork.

I was supposed to have phoned Hany earlier but had left his business card sitting on the seat of his SUV during another tussle with the camcorder and a pocket pad down for the right currency. I cursed my camcorder again.

At least not being able to phone Hany left me free to phone Libyan New Zealander, Ali, at the agreed time. In the absence of public phones the lady at reception generously offered her mobile. What was missing now was the network, owned by Qaddafi's oldest son, Mohammed and now switched off. Well, at least I had another excuse for not having phoned Hany.

It was time for something easy. I walked down to the shop where i had left for repair my MP3 player that refused to play my Arabic lessons or anything else. It was closed. Default option was coffee in the hotel where they kindly took my money without quibble. Also there was Lars of Norwegian State Broadcasting; their Africa correspondent. He and his genial camera man Bengt from Sweden showed me their story on political/religious prisoner, Muhammad Busidra and gave me his number. Things were looking up.

The interview was for that afternoon. I just had time to wander down to the esplanade to film Saif al-Islam Qaddafi's massive unfinished hotel. As I started panning a car slowly approached and three young citizen-security men got out to ask what I was doing and insisted on checking my passport. Still unhappy with my unchaperoned presence they opened the back door with the apparent intent of taking me back to my hotel. Perhaps they wanted to follow the precedent in Tripoli of keeping all journalists under hotel arrest. I declined.

They did not have visible guns but they were not going away. I gave them the number of Muhammad Busidra, described by the Economist as lawyer to the Jihadists. The sort of guy it was useful to call upon at times like this. He obligingly turned up in a few minutes later and, after checking that I had been treated courteously, drove me back to my hotel where it was just about time to set out again for his interview.

While waiting for Muhammad for the second time I solicited an amiable tea brewer to act as camera man, citizen-camera man I guess. After the interview he also led me to the media centre where I obtained press card number 911 to ward off self-appointed security men. The conversation among journalists using the facilities was whether one was going or staying. Qaddafi was now regaining ground in the direction of Benghazi, one camera man was dead and the quake in Japan was an instant recall for network correspondents.
"You know as long as we reporters remain they won't take Benghazi"
"I hear you. My paper is taking me out"
A french TV camera man, Nicholas, told me "I ll fight my way back if I have to."

The wind was blowing strongly. A young man in a car brandished a machete to indicate his readiness. Another journalist commented on how the mood had swung from euphoric to downcast.