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 xray, a beach full of dead marine life and negotiations with village elders.
I was the biggest draw in town for years.
Armed Guard Security
I tried to imagine it from their point of view and it must have looked really weird. Here they were, in a remote village in a desolate spot some three hours drive through the desert to the nearest tarmac road, scratching together an existence in this small community with its low-level stone cuboid houses in the middle, surrounded by huts made of rickety sticks and bags on the outskirts, a community where cars where rare and visitors (pastoral nomads excepted) even more so. It must have been bizarre for them to look up in the twilight hours from their cooking pots, to see a fat Englishman, complete with clipboard, floppy hat and followed by an armed guard, AK-47 at the ready, strolling nonchalantly through the main 'street'.
I only wanted to go for a walk, to escape the confines of the health post where we would be spending the night. I thought I might be able to slip out unnoticed and out of the village to take in the desert sunset, but there was no such luck. No sooner had I slipped through the gate (there was no danger here) and headed left out of the village, than I was pursued at a discreet distance by Ismail and his weapon.
It had been a long and frustrating day, trying to explain what for me were basic concepts to village elders who were barely literate. It certainly wasn't their fault, and I was once again thankful for the opportunity of a good education, but it was frustrating all the same. I headed up the hill, just to get away, with Ismail never far behind. To my left, a bleating goat, its legs tied together, so that it wouldn't stray too far. To my right, many earth mounds covered with stones. Somali graves. And in the distance, as I wondered back to the village, I could make out the approaching nomads with their thinning heads of cattle, wearily approaching the village in the relentless pursuit of pasture for their animals during this, the worst drought in many years.
Nomadic Tribes in a Drought
It hasn't rained in this area for two years and water has to be tanked in and stored in huge sub-surface water tanks that resemble swimming pools. There were several of them surrounding the village. The following morning heads were raised expectantly towards the skies; the fierce sun was at bay by blackened clouds. Perhaps the chance of rain! And this a month before whatever seasonal rains were due! But the clouds soon passed and so did the hopeful mood. The sun was out and the reality returned that life was never going to be easy round here.
It had been a long 11-hour field trip and the only accommodation available was in the maternity ward in the health post that had been constructed by our project. I wasn't looking forward to it particularly, especially as we had to be on the road at 5.30 am the next day for another 13-hour trip across rough tracks in the desert. The village of Humbays doesn't cater for mass tourism, and the cocktail lounge in the Humbays Hilton may have been undergoing renovation, but the night was comfortable enough. The squat toilet was clean and there were fresh sheets on the maternity beds. Lights out came at about sunset and I drifted off into ten hours of uninterrupted sleep, but not before I sat alone on a giant stone and looked up at the night sky, admiring the millions of stars that lit up the night.
I wasn't overly looking forward to dinner, as food was almost as sparse as the water. Our hosts nonetheless rallied and produced a fine meal of spaghetti and potato sauce. I was given a separate plate with and a fork, the others got stuck into their communal trough with a combination of hands and mouths. Spaghetti. In this remotest of remote outposts, the Italian colonial legacy lives on (Puntland was Italian Somaliland until 1960).
Read more about Inspecting Camel Troughs, Skins and Hides and Measuring Canals.
Paul Bradbury - Author of Hvar: An Insider's Guide to Croatia's Premier Island, and Lebanese Nuns Don't Ski
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