SOMALILAND – MARATHON FOUR WHEELIN’ (LIKE IT OR NOT)

What we know as “Somalia” – that boomerang shaped former nation astride the Horn of Africa that is now actually three different countries fashioned from one – that one being temporarily unified only since 1960 --has a reputation as being a lawless wasteland, without a true monetary or banking system, and a hornet’s nest of warlords, crop disasters, drug runners, pirates, and kidnappers. 

That part best known from newsreels of hijacked ships and the movies “Black Hawk Down” and “Captain Phillips” is located in the south.  Its capitol of Mogadishu is virtually a “no fly zone” for westerners after two decades of fighting among rival factions resulting in humanitarian chaos.  Only recently have Islamic militants been sent scurrying to rural areas and a semblance of order maintained through United Nations supervised free elections, with establishment of the first real government in Somalia since 1991.

The middle portion, Puntland, broke away from Somalia in 1998 and declared itself an autonomous state.  It remains a hotbed of piracy, despite the presence of the US and French navies in adjacent sea lanes (or in bases in nearby Djibouti).  Puntland remains in conflict with its western neighbor, The Republic of Somaliland (my intended target destination), largely over territorial disputes.

Somaliland at the time of my arrival was celebrating its 23^rd anniversary of independence from Somalia – a status of which its citizens are boisterously proud.  Today it is a bonafide if internationally unrecognized democracy, with regular elections and a functioning economy based on agriculture, a growing tourism industry, and baby steps toward oil development in the eastern part of the country (hence, the territorial conflicts with Puntland).

My bus journey in from Harar in eastern Ethiopia takes approximately five hours.  The crossing itself is without drama and a visa is easily obtained at the Tog Wajaale border post.  I was surprised at the fine quality of the roads inbound, considering desert conditions and shifting sand dunes along the way.  I was also pleasantly surprised at the scenery, with date palms, wild camel herds and water in unexpected places proliferating along the generally flattened route.

Once inside Somaliland, security checks abound.  Seven times on the two hour eastbound drive to the capitol of Hargeisa it became necessary to stop the hired taxi, show my passport, and on occasion empty my packs.  This becomes even more pronounced once an imaginary arc is crossed about an hour east of there, near Burao.  At this point, the visitor must hire a private vehicle and employ an armed guard from the SPU (Special Protection Unit) of the military to accompany them at all times.

I would like to say that the Somalilanders are conscientious about both the care AND feeding of their guests.  But this is not the case.  It is caveat emptor when it comes to dining.  Not from a lack of food choices.  Far from it.  More from the lack of latin alphabet menus, or any menus at all.  You may be lucky to get photos only (and your chances of getting an English speaking waiter are exponential).

Though the food appears delicious, the question always lurks in the back of your mind: “Is that intestine I am looking at?  Sheep brains?  Liver?  Is that offal? “  Has it been emptied?  Has it been cleaned?  Has it been grilled, or at least boiled?  What is that?

Hence, my meals during the three days spent in this unusual locale usually consist of some sort of salad with green tomatoes, spaghetti, and spiced chicken.  Actually, the best chicken of the whole trip was ingested at The Cadaani Cafeteria in Hargeisa.  My waiter had lived briefly in the United States, maintained relations with relatives there, traveled extensively, and knew just what to recommend for a cautious palette.

Otherwise the traveler should expect plenty of tea, enjera bread, rice, noodles, liver and onions, goat and camel meat, and salad in various forms.  Meals are eaten with the hands.  Utensils are rarely present unless requested.  Given the Arab practice of “the sacred hand” combined with the squat toilet, the curiosity of just what level of sanitation is at play by those preparing your meal is never far from one’s consciousness.

Hargeisa is no Prague.  The buildings are a dull pastel, and unimaginative in design or variety.  Streets and alleys are dirt and dominated by potholes and rain filled trenches.  Buses, cars, donkey carts, and pedestrians all weave a fascinating tapestry of disorder throughout the city, punctuated by diesel puffs and regular splatters of mud.

Men wear casual western clothing or the arabic full length gown (taub or tawb).  Women largely wear full length scarves and burkas.  I have no idea how they endure this, given the local heat and humidity.  One must constantly hydrate, and to consume a lemonade or soft drink once per hour is not unusual.  Once again, beer is nearly completely lacking, except on occasion deep in the recesses of a few back alley grocery mini-marts after a steep markup.

The lodgings are generally clean and modern.  I stayed at the Oriental Hotel for approximately $35 nightly, which provided reliable internet, a clean and spacious room, hot water, showers, and towels.  The English speaking staff was friendly and overly helpful and had great connections for side activities and transport options away from the capitol.

Unfortunately, this otherwise fine location put me square across from the Ali Matan Mosque, where I was subjected to the magnified loudspeaker Islamic call to prayer (Somaliland is almost 100% Sunni Muslim) five times a day starting around 5 AM.  The sound is akin to the fingers-on-chalkboard wailings of a group of feral cats in the recovery room of a castration clinic.

I mostly wear nylon cargo shorts and a nylon “fast dry” shirt throughout this entire journey.  My occasional traveling companion is clad similarly as a result of the heat.  But in a strict Islamic society, this results in some really testy moments.  Men would generally merely ogle a western female.  They had probably never seen exposed leg before, though the married ones had surely felt this phenomena.  The women however …

They were downright snipers.  Catcalls understandable in any language sailed out across the crowded streets and alleys.  As the only white folk in town save for a few UN types in white SUVs, we drew riveting attention.  Valerie made for an easy target.  Younger women would actually come up on our tail and attempt to disapprovingly tug at her  clothing.  I would have to turn suddenly and make a mock charge to get them to disperse.  Then men standing by, who were otherwise leering and enjoying the show, would break into applause for my defensive posturing.

The men later apologized for this behavior on the part of their women, explaining that westerners were actually most welcome here.  They were just not accustomed to witnessing this manner of dress -- they really were tolerant!  They enjoined that it was only the least educated members of their society that were demonstrating the most objectionable reaction.  Based on their enthusiastic greetings and willingness to exchange stories, it was easy to take these men at their word.

During my stay it was intended to get outside Hargeisa to two places, primarily.  The first was the well-preserved primitive rock paintings of Las Geel, said to be one of Africa’s best kept traveling secrets and only 50 kilometer from the capitol.  Conveniently this was on the way to my second destination, the deserted beaches of the coastal enclave of Barbera.

Predictably, changes in circumstance pop up when you travel freestyle.  Luckily most of them are good.  In this case it was the revelation there were no flights from Barbera down to the neighboring country of Djibouti to make the Somaliland loop complete. This trip would have required an expensive taxi ride, the probable hiring of an armed escort, and the payment of a $25 per-person permit for the mere privilege of viewing Las Geel.  Then I learned there would be no open flights out of Hargeisa for at least two days to Djibouti, and all options went by the wayside.  Even freestylers have rough schedules …

So now overland to the Djibouti border crossing at Loyaada seemed the sole choice.  It was not difficult to contemplate.  From available maps the journey appeared to be only about 200 miles, even considering a roundabout route.  I’d already endured a half dozen 12 to 14 hour bus journeys.  This one would be on a 4WD Land Rover.  How tough could it be?

The generous personnel at the Oriental Hotel made these arrangements.  They were assisted by two hotel guests, who had transport cell phone contact numbers handy. I willingly made a deposit payment on the $35 per person fare to reserve seats.  Things never remain that clear, however.  The departure point, once clear of the well intended hotel handlers who had paved the way for the journey, resulted in additional bargaining with first the Land Rover owner.  Then the driver.

At first the owner did not want to acknowledge the morning’s deposit payment.  Then I paid a larger deposit for two fares, to help pay for fuel up front.  I made the mistake of not making the owner count that money in front of me.  He walked around the vehicle.  Upon returning, he announced I was $20 short.  I called upon my hotel handler, still standing by to the last minute.  Surely he had counted it?  He was the one who handed it to the owner.  A rapid exchange took place, with much annoyance, in English and Arabic and Somali.  The owner insisted on $20 more.  I refused, then demanded a refund.  He in turn refused the refund.  Then walked away.

After half an hour of cooling our heels, and well exceeding our 6 PM start time, he returned.  Without contrition.  Instead of compromising he now wanted payment in full … up front.  He smiled wanly and explained this was needed to pay expensive fuel charges for the overnight trip.  Now I refused.  And demanded a refund a second time, though I had no fallback plans in mind.  He took off again.  Half an hour later, seething and chomping at the bit, I paid the fares in full.  Then demanded a receipt.

Suddenly the owner is all smiles.  Congratulatory back slapping abounds.  Everybody shakes hands and guarantees to remain in contact.   We are all smiles.  All ten of us board the Land Rover – a driver and two of us up front, two passengers in the middle seat and a relief driver, and four passengers in the very back (two women and two children), sighing with relief.  They are mildly amused at my continuous ranting and epithets, understood at this point in any language.

After fueling and the owner’s giddy departure our driver initiates delays of his own.  He explains in very broken English that he is waiting for … packages.  He wants baksheesh money for the checkpoint guards.  He is waiting for one more passenger.  I threaten to drive the damn vehicle myself if he doesn’t depart.  He too, takes a long leave of absence.  Nothing happens.  There is nobody to help, explain, threaten, or cajole.

Following a two hour overall delay we finally leave.  We are not gone five minutes when there is a 15 minute delay.  Smokes.  Ten minutes further on, another delay.  “Packages.” Off again.  Another delay -- our first security check gate.  Intense scrutiny.  The guards with their AK47s look at me with bemusement.  “Fool.  If you had any idea of what awaits you …”

The road is very rough.  Uneven, pitted, with deep ruts, always necessitating the avoidance of road centered rocks.  Soft in places, tilted in others.  Mud all around. When the track is too deteriorated, a detour is simply created far to the side.  But I have seen this before.  Often this surface type will initiate a leg, and then you meet the main road and all is well.  I kept thinking this for five and one-half hours.  During this time, our little Gypsy Band of ten and one beat-up Land Rover slogged along, bouncing pitifully and rocking from side to side.  We never left second gear.

Another stop around 1:30 AM.  Mercifully this time.  At Ilinta, as near as I could tell.  Mud and stick and thatched huts, too many maurading dogs and cats to sit or dine in comfort, and no public restrooms (not sure whose garden patch I utilized).  The locals were mesmerized with television on a battery powered 10” black and white screen adjacent to the so-called road. But at least there was plenty of sweetened Somali tea.  Fortified with milk and sugar.  Delightful!

We pass multiple checkpoints.  At each, the guards mull us over.  After awhile they lose fascination with the white man banging about the front cab.  The driver talks to each in almost amorous tones, occasionally passing smokes along.  This is often accompanied by the hurried shuffling of a wad of Somaliland shillings (exchanged at 7000 to the dollar).  The real “pass or no pass” medium though, is khat.  I see plenty evidence of that as the guards mumble numbly in the dim light.  An avocado like glow and leafy drivel always appears when they open their mouths.  I understand our previous “package” stops in full now.

It is impossible to sleep.  Around 3 AM we continue our desert shimmy.  The whole scene is surreal.  It is very much like the white-line fever one gets, driving the 500 mile stretch between Salt Lake City and Reno through the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah.  Despite the rough ride the monotony is hypnotic.  All of a sudden, we all pitch forward.  The driver has slammed on his brakes.  We are about to hit a wall of water, and stop just in time.  Only the moonlight gives the riverbed away.

The rains of the previous three days have swelled local crossings.  Instead of the usual trickle being navigable, it is now 3 to 4 feet deep.  Dissipation of the runoff is necessary.  We all retire to a sand bank to await return of fallen waters.  I take a tarp from the top of the Land Rover.  The drivers don’t like it.  They have already switched seats earlier than planned, as I complained about their slow pace and constant delays for smokes, khat, and gossip in each village we pass.  I wave them off.  The cover follows.

Three hours later, we are suddenly awakened by a grinding roar.  A Land Rover from the opposite bank is making a low-gear but high rpm run at our side.  In the pre-dawn hours, he is blind.  He has no idea there are sleepers laying directly in front of him.  A few of us spring from our naps on the tarp, and pull others out of harms way.  Despite the adrenaline rush, we know then at least it is possible to cross.

Everybody boards quickly except for the two drivers.  The sleep-deprived devils (who make these trips back-to-back) want a few more winks.  The rest of us are restless however.  The women in the back, having seen me forcefully make my earlier points in a way an Islamic woman never would be allowed, urge me with hand gestures to take matters into my own hands.  I grab the two of them by the arms, pull them upright, and point toward the opposite bank.  They grudgingly respond.

Once on the opposite bank, we encounter powdery sand.  The tires must be deflated to be rounder and have more grab on the soft surface.  Two more river crossings await.  At times we must corduroy the riverbed with rocks, sticks, and brush.  We pass through a beautiful prehistoric lakebed -- crunchy and flat and often given to glass reflection like mirages.

Speeds of 50 miles per hour become possible (this is the only time in the 27 hours of the journey that we are able to get into third gear). More wild camels than I could ever count graze, enter my field of vision, and disappear on the heat shimmied horizon with regularity.  A body could easily get drunk on these visual acrobatics. 

Six more villages pass.  All are rustic, without amenities, and often powered only by solar panels.  Why are they located here?  Perhaps they have the only well for miles? We often stop for hydration.  The drivers always wish to smoke, trade out packets of khat, exchange pleasantries with the village men, or have endless cups of Somali tea.  At times on my way to the loo, I catch one of them wooing local women behind the huts.  Do they have an amore in every remote village, I wonder?

By this time, they know I mean business when I start rounding everybody up for the continuation of our journey.  We resume in the deadly heat of day.  Eventually another stop for radiator fluid is mandatory at the village of Bagao.  I unwittingly become the subject of a minor sensation.  The children crowd around, gawk, come close to poking me, then retreat.  They smile, laugh, point, retreat again, and come forward repeatedly.

The ice is broken when I have my photo taken with several and share the results with them and their parents.  They willingly come up for high fives and arm to arm embraces afterward.  Only later do I learn that nobody under the age of 25 in this village has ever seen a white man.

Our final stop before the Djibouti border post is at the village of Ashado.  It is simply too hot to continue.  For the driver, the passengers, the tires, and the radiator.  We hydrate, have a few snacks, and retire for nearly three hours to a shaded patio with sleep lounges and water basins for both sipping and washing.  The sleep comes naturally and without hesitation.  Once again, the female passengers eventually gesture to me to round up the drivers so we can resume our journey.

The final two hours to our border  destination is like a summary of the entire trip: it is a combination of mogul skiing, the 24 hours of Le Mans, the Pink Jeep Rides of Sedona (Arizona), and the torturous endurance marathon embodied in the movie “They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?”

By the time we have arrived at Loyaada close to 9 PM, we have averaged less than eight miles per hour.  It is an experience I will never recommend to others, and never willingly repeat.  But travel adventure being what I live for, it is a memory I will never forget, and one that I am sure will bring me more and more fondness as the years attempt to pass me by.