Country number: 169 (Somalia)
Territory number: 209
When? February 2019 Last leg, coming from Djibouti
This is the closest I’m going to get to Somalia, given the current situation. I’m not keen on the notion that I might be kidnapped by pirates. And as far as the UN is concerned Somaliland is part of Somalia, even though the people of Somaliland don’t agree.
I have to present myself in person for my visa before I can travel here too. The consulate is buried on the ground floor of a small block near the hospital on the Whitechapel Road. I squeeze into one of its Lilliputian offices, no waiting, and am given my visa immediately. On receipt of £30 of course. I’m not asked any questions about my reasons for visiting, though the consular official has quite a lot to say about the stupidity of Brexit.
The flight from Djibouti to Hargeisa, the capital of Somaliland, covers more flattish desert, edging the Gulf of Aden. Now I’m almost on the Horn of Africa itself.
There have been a couple of surprises already. Apparently, I’m expected to cover my hair, which isn’t great news when it’s so hot and I’m ideologically opposed. Not opposed enough to make a stand, travelling on my own, however. Though I’m only complying outside the hotel. My accommodation isn’t as bad as I feared (especially when I saw the outside of the building) and my room is better than the one at the Sheraton in Djibouti. Though clearly that’s not saying much. The other surprise was the armed soldier dressed in combat gear, who clambered in to the 4WD with Badri, my guide-cum-driver. Badri says he’s called Abdi and he’s coming with us everywhere we go. That certainly wasn’t on the itinerary.
Hargeisa is dusty and mainly flat, dotted with small mosques. The only sight of any consequence is the bizarre independence monument – a jet fighter atop a pillar with bloody murals of the fighting. . The most interesting area, fortuitously adjacent to my hotel, houses the vibrant market stalls stretching into the distance as far as the eye can see (from the top of the building ; the best part is the street of the the money changers. Here, the individual notes are worth so little they are bundled up and displayed in wire frames. I change ten dollars. Inflation is so rampant it will probably only be worth five tomorrow. The little booths have English signage (mostly spelled wrongly) and are endearingly painted with bright murals that advertise the wares on sale. Simple but effective.
I’ve been met with a mixture of English greetings, smiles, frowns and consternation. The latter is mainly from women, who prod each other and point towards me. Badri says I shouldn’t go out alone unless I’m wearing a loose skirt. At least that’s what I think he said. His English isn’t always very good. He told me that I need something to cover those round things – I’m not sure if those are my legs or trousers. This is another piece of information I could have done with before I left. I don’t have any skirts with me, let alone loose ones. All the Somali females, even the very young ones, are swathed head to toe in voluminous garments. the dress code is stricter here than in Iran, except that no-one has threatened to cart me off to prison for offending. And I do have my own minder to keep dissent at bay. There’s no alcohol anywhere and the muezzin resounds through my bedroom walls. I expect it will act as an alarm call; we have an early start. My bedroom has a balcony with a view across the square and the monument. I’m obviously not supposed to be utilising it though, as the bed has been placed across the door; I can only see out if I stand on the mattress and peer over the bedhead.
Today, I’m bouncing over the desert again, but this time with three men. Badri and Abdi have been joined by Mohammed, a professor of archaeology from the Ministry of Tourism. I’ve no idea why, as it’s cave paintings tomorrow. He’s brought his camera, so maybe he just fancied a jolly. The East Africans have a penchant for decorating their cars with hairy mats and this one has shag pile seating in back with sheepskins in front, even over the gearstick. It’s also left-hand drive designed, as are nearly all the vehicles here, even though the road is right hand drive, to align with most of Africa. It makes for interesting overtaking, with Abdi shouting directions.
I’m not being consulted on in car entertainment again. Bedri has good English as long as you stick to very basic vocabulary- he’s self taught. Abdi has a very limited repertoire of phrases and Mohammed speaks some English. But his accent is so thick I can’t understand a word he says. They are alternating wailing Somali music with very loud conversation. The Somali language is even more guttural than Arabic. Abdi sounds as if he’s gargling a lot of the time. Maybe he is. They’ve also bought khat, the local variant on coca, to chew, from one of the many roadside booths. The leaves are smaller than coca and it’s sold in spriggy bundles. I’ve tried it, but it’s horribly bitter.
The desert here has greener shrub than in neighbouring Djibouti and a variety of succulents and little red to yellow sunrise effect sand hillocks appear, as we near the escarpment, which is our goal today. It must be glorious when all the aloes flower. The inducement for our journey is a view and a variety of wildlife. But the fauna must all have disappeared to Djibouti, where I was very lucky – there’s a few fleeting gerenuks and a solitary dik-dik. It takes three and half hours to reach a small gated encampment. Mohammed points out everything remotely connected with colonial times on the way – he is very keen on British references -and there are old, very crumbling British buildings here in the breezier highlands.
We halt on the way back so Badri and Mohmmed can pray in the bushes. Abdi stays with me, still wielding his gun. ‘Security,’ he beams, flicking khat around. He has a very cheeky face. We jolt back across the sand, all three of them singing tunelessly along to the radio. Mohammed arranges coats for me to rest my head on and tries to persuade me to sleep on his lap. It’s been an utterly surreal day.
It has to be said that the food I’ve sampled on this East African trip hasn’t always been that tasty, or hygienically prepared. This hotel has a very fancy looking western style menu, but at least part of it is a total work of fiction. The waiter looks blank when I ask him about the smoothies and milk shakes on offer and goes to the kitchen to see if they have ever heard of such a thing; They haven’t. Last night’s roast chicken dinner (I thought I was choosing the safe option) turned out to be cold meat on the bone, with some hot mustardy paste ‘slathered’ on it, instead of the garlic butter I was promised. I’ve tried to think of an accurate adjective to describe it, but the best I can do is ‘vile’.
Breakfast this morning is frustrating. Fresh orange juice isn’t available, and my omelette just isn’t happening. I walk out in the end, but Badri is late and the woman on reception persuades me to return and comes with me, to give the staff a tongue lashing. There are raised voices in the kitchen. Eventually, a waiter comes rushing out with my omelette and promptly drops the plate. There are smithereens flying all over the floor. Mark 2 arrives only a minute later. But no sign of the avocado juice alternative that I was promised. Badri says the whole staff was replaced a couple of months ago, when the hotel changed ownership.
I’m off to see cave paintings today. I’m not wildly excited – rock art has never done it for me before. And these are only billed as the second best in the country. The most impressive are scheduled for tomorrow. It’s Friday, so there is none of the customary nose-to-tail traffic on the pot holed tarmac and scores of camels are out grazing, by the wayside. Badri tells me that the smallest are worth 300 dollars and the largest 1200. I ask if wives are still sold for camels. He says sometimes, but he paid gold for his wife.
We’re driving west today, along a road that is being rebuilt and extended to Ethiopia. The Ethiopians seem to have been very busy on the access to port front lately. The road has just been inaugurated and there’s a Kenyan media delegation in my hotel, filming the event. Then we leave the main ‘highway’ for another off-road desert rally driving experience. The scenery is not dissimilar to yesterday. Distinctive snow-white sheep with coal black heads form picturesque groupings under trees. The nomad tents in Somaliland are also igloo shaped, but covered in a faded patchwork of old clothes flung over plastic sheeting. There is also evidence of some cultivation – rows of umbrella like papaya trees, in orchards.
There are three caves with paintings, but the 7,000-year-old artwork in two of them has been destroyed by smoke from nomad fires. I’m still struggling to find the primitive pictures of giraffes, dogs and cows interesting, even though it’s incredible that they are so ancient. Badri agrees with me that the surrounding rock formations are much more beautiful. It’s an enormous cluster of striated boulders balanced precariously and artistically by nature. There’s no one else around, unless you count the plaintively bleating goats, whose rest we have disturbed. ‘Hello Sueooooooo’. I’m back in the Antarctic for a second. Badri says that there used to be giraffes and a great deal of other larger mammal life in the area, until the war. The animals (unsurprisingly) left and never returned.
A bodyguard comes in very handy at times. A man yells at me for taking a photo of his orange stall, but quickly changes his tune when Abdi appears, flourishing his rifle. The vendor is soon begging me to take a picture. I decline to do so.
It’s the number one rock painting site today, but first I’m buying an Emirati style abaya gown in the market. I can’t cope with the horrified looks I’m getting, as if I’m walking around naked. The abaya is certainly cooler than trousers, but something of a liability scrambling up steep slippy paths lined with thorns.
The paintings here are at least fenced off and guarded, although we are, again, the only visitors. There are several decorated caves, mostly formed by overhanging rocks, the red and white images better preserved and more detailed, cattle mating and men drinking from a cow’s udder. There’s also a proliferation of wild life (at last) inhabiting the rock formations: hyraxes, tiny squirrels, lizards and assorted colourful birds, including hornbills and the red breasted grosbeak (great name).
To the coast at Berbera. The strategic road to the port is a little frayed at the edges, but paved all the way (other than the desert turn off to the paintings of course) and it even has yellow central line markings at times. As always, there are numerous roadblocks, ropes stretched across our way and soldiers checking the vehicles. Abdi puts his beret on when he sees one coming up and chats to the guards on duty and they let us through.
My hotel is on a beach on the Gulf of Aden; it’s a flat rocky stretch, scattered with bottles. It reminds me of a semi cleared waste dump. The surf is high, and some locals are frolicking in the waves, fully dressed of course. I don’t think that’s for me, and I can imagine the uproar if I actually take my clothes off. Besides, the relentlessly blue sky has given way to cloud and drizzle. My bungalow room is comfy, until some little brown bustards (almost aptly named) begin to party on the corrugated roof.
Berbera is sited on a strategic point at the entrance to the Red Sea and the UAE are commissioning a military base here, an interesting development in the ongoing Cold Wars with Iran, and with the west. There’s an atmospheric port area, with a fish market and a cluster of associated restaurants and numerous crumbling buildings, British and Ottoman, finally ravaged by the war. It’s very quiet – Badri explains that this is because it’s cloudy and people have stayed in bed.
The road ascends, through increasing cloud cover, to the little town of Sheikh, atop the mountains, where more crumbling buildings are testament to the British rule. There’s the remains of a fortress and the governor’s house. We eat lunch in a tent that’s part of a wayside restaurant – tuna fingers, goat soup and rice. Animals come to beg for titbits, there’s a tabby cat under the table and some horns appear at the head of the table. ‘Fucking goat,’ shouts Abdi. It appears that’s he knows more English than I thought.
The streets of Hargeisa are also peaceful again, as we return, mid-afternoon. Badri says that the hours after lunch are for sleeping and khat chewing. Alternatively, I’ve discovered an available and tasty option on the hotel menu – carrot cake.
Camels are the mainstay of Somalia – more per head than any other country in the world I’ve read. I’ve avoided eating camel meat whilst I’m here, though it’s often on offer – I think; it’s supposed to be very greasy. The camel market in Hargeisa is utterly fascinating – hundreds of the beasts, tethered, fighting, chewing, waiting for their respective fates. Many of the nomad vendors here are friendlier than the townspeople, offering limited greetings and nervously trying to decide if they would like a photo taken or not. Again, the stock phrase, ‘Somaliland, once British Protectorate’. Again, said, with pride and to generate kinship. The women congratulate me on my attire, but remonstrate that my hair is showing. ‘Do you have a goat on your head?’ They congregate under umbrellas, churning butter and brewing tea alongside their sheep, which are roped together in lines. White horned cattle are driven into a compound on the far side. It’s a fascinating spectacle, at least as rewarding, if not better, than its more famous cousin, the livestock market at Kashgar. It’s a good way to finish my trip.
Somaliland is not an internationally recognised country. It is a self-declared republic that has been seeking recognition since 1991. As far as the UN is concerned it is part of Somalia.
Somaliland became independent from the UK in 1960 and then existed as an independent state for five days before it agreed to join the rest of Somalia (previously under Italian rule) to form Greater Somalia. Things didn’t go well. Somalilanders felt oppressed and took the opportunity to claim independence when President Bare’s regime collapsed.
Somalilanders are officially Somali citizens and so need to obtain a passport from the central government to travel internationally, although some countries allow Somalilanders to travel with their Somaliland passport.
Somaliland, together with the rest of Somalia, is officially, the least visited country in the world.
The Somali currency, the Shilling, suffers from rampant inflation, so is constantly devalued and its value decreases on daily basis. The current exchange rate is about 8,000 Shilling to the US Dollar. It doesn’t help that the World Bank estimates that 98% of the currency in circulation is fake.
To see more of my photos of Somaliland visit this page.