This article is part of a series about the experiences of one aid worker living and working in northern Somalia in 2002, starting with engine trouble on John Travolta's old plane, a foot X-ray, a beach full of dead marine life, negotiations with village elders and a night under armed guard.
I learned a valuable lesson in northern Somalia, which is that, if one has a hangover, it is not a clever idea to assess a skins and hides production factory before breakfast. I would have had difficulty coping with the stench and the fresh skins at the best of times, but this was a hard start to what was going to be a very long day indeed. At least I had an extra hour in the dining room to get my head together, as my impressive personal authority was on display. I had told the staff to bring the car for 7.30 am sharp, so that we could get going. "No problem, we'll be here." They rolled up at 8.30, full of plausible excuses, but I knew they had been chewing qat all night. There is no point even trying to come between a Somalia and his qat, you just have to work around it.
Bore Holes For Water
From the skins and hides, we proceeded to a bore hole rehabilitation project. I suddenly found myself inspecting camel watering troughs, the dozens of camels right behind me baying for water. I walked on and encountered Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, minus the good lady herself; a large hole in the ground revealed a team of singing Somali boys, each placed slightly lower than the one above, working as a team to pass the water up for the camels. They were using animal skins for the purpose, each containing about twenty litres. The sight of a fat Englishman did not disturb them unduly. I asked their ages and was told fourteen, although most looked no older than eight. And they worked around the clock.
Group 4 Security Guards - Somali-Style
I was then taken to meet an elder of supreme importance. He rose slowly and deliberately, then fished inside his clothing to produce a pair of spectacles I suspect he did not need. More fishing and some flimsy documents in a polythene bag. It was an interesting collection. Letters of reference and thanks from the Americans in 1993 in Mogadishu, where he had worked as a gardener; a letter of employment as a guard in the British Embassy in 1982; and my favourite, a reference from his former employer, Group 4 Security in Mogadishu. Group 4 can't secure anything in the UK, never mind Mogadishu.
And that for me is one thing I miss over here - someone to share those humorous moments with. As we inspected another health post, constructed with money from the Netherlands, I was much amused by the painted sign, Funded by Dtuch Gout. The misspelling of Dutch notwithstanding, I was tickled by the thought over the taxes from overindulgent Cloggies financing such an escapade. I considered sharing the joke with Mohamed, but he was still talking about the problems of the draught, so I let it ride.
I have always hated mobile phones and only bought one under duress for the wine job I had before. Now I am blissfully uncontactable again. Unless I go out into the field. As I was bonding with the camels, a message came from HQ that my flight to Bosaso had been changed to 6.30 am the next morning. It was already afternoon and we were six hours' drive away. Having reached home at eight, I had some meetings until late, later than the generator was willing to work, so it was to bed in darkness and then packing in darkness in the morning.
The Importance of Accurate Measurements
The only other time the radio has caught me was the day at the Humbays Hilton, when the cheerful tones of the Kenyan auditor, Wanjiru, came through loud and clear:
"Paul, when you go to Iskushuban, can you measure the cemented canal, over?"
"Please confirm, you want me to measure the canal, over?"
Silence.
Measuring canals is a new area for me. I had forgotten to pack my measuring tape in the overnight bag, in case such an eventuality might occur. But it can't be that difficult, surely? One sturdy stride is the equivalent of about a metre, so it should be easy.
There aren't many whites who have been to the valley near Iskushuban where the project is based. Quite what the locals make of us anyway is not known, but I hardly succeeded in enhancing our reputation in the eyes of the local farmers, who looked up from their crops to see a floppy-hatted Englishman striding in a determined fashion down the middle of their canal. My task would have been considerably easier had the canal been straight, not gone over a bridge and not been fenced off at numerous points. In order to overcome the latter, I was forced to climb steep rocks, ripping my trousers in the process. A spectacle that will long be remembered locally, I am sure.
Continued
Paul Bradbury - Author of Hvar: An Insider's Guide to Croatia's Premier Island, and Lebanese Nuns Don't Ski
Join the Conversation