Remembering my trip to Berbera in 2016. Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

I fished through my backpack to find my empty water bottle and fill it up in the lavatory sink. The water that came out of the faucet was thick and cloudy. Apparently in Somaliland, like much of Africa, no tap water is good enough to drink without treating it.

I went back out to the terminal and found a seat. Then I discreetly took out my Steri-pen, a UV light filter, and dipped it into the water. A neon blue light turned on and I stirred the water for a full minute, watching the particles in it swirl around like a mini toilet bowl. Drinking the water was now safe; the light was supposed to kill off all the amebas and sea monkeys, but that didn’t mean it sat well with my sensitive stomach. I took a sip and then waited for the aches, pains, and diarrhea. Why I didn’t just buy a bottle of water from the cafe I don’t know. I guess I just felt like I needed a big bottle of water for whatever surprise or long wait was in-store for me between Hargeisa and Addis Ababa.

I took a few more conservative sips and tightened the lid back on to the water bottle. The swallow trapped in the terminal fluttered around its big windows and high ceilings. I checked my phone in an effort to look productive and managed to decline an invitation to play disc golf back home before the airport Internet connection dropped out completely.

I got up and made my way to the window. A door had been left ajar. I pulled it open and walked out of the terminal and onto the sun baked tarmac. There was a kind of patio with a few cement flower planters that separated me from the aircraft. I found a long wooden bench and sat down, taking in the last of the hot, dry Somali air. Then I unscrewed the cap of my bottle and quenched my nervous thirst with another small sip of purified water.

A few airline workers appeared with cups of tea on saucers from the cafe. They seemed a little annoyed to find me in their hangout place but they didn’t tell me to go back inside. Instead they crowded in, shared cigarettes amongst themselves, and gossiped loudly. Another man rode in on a baggage transport vehicle to join them.

Everyone was sitting on the bench now and I was pushed to the very edge of it. I decided to go back inside. When I returned to the terminal I was amazed to see, under a lethargic ceiling fan, an airport gift shop. 

Prior to my discovery, there was only one gift shop in all of Somaliland that I knew about: Asli Mills. It was there that the diaspora, or a rare tourist like myself, could purchase traditional souvenirs for loved ones in Europe or America like a wooden camel bell, a wooden container for camel milk, a stick used to herd livestock, a wooden camel carving, or a nice head scarf for the special lady in your life.

The airport gift shop only sold t-shirts. There were three designs to choose from in a variety of colors: a camel head, text that said “Straight Outta Hargeisa,” and another camel graphic, this one in a full body profile. I liked the last one the best and asked for it in a navy blue. I had discovered a $20 bill in my bag that had evaded the baggage handlers at the entrance.

“Ah, sorry, that one is sold out,” the young shopkeeper told me cheerfully in a Minnesotan accent. “The one on the wall is just for display.”

I inquired about other styles and received the same answer: not available.

“The team that makes these is local. They are still learning the silkscreen process,” the shopkeeper explained.

In the end, he had a camel head t-shirt in gray so I went with that. A voice on a crackly intercom announced that the plane to Addis was about to board and to go upstairs.

The few passengers still loitering around the cafe were rounded up. We trudged up the steps to another large waiting room. It was packed with two flights going out at relatively the same time. Both were departing surprisingly earlier than scheduled.

Men and women were separated into two lines. I had forgotten about the third security checkpoint before takeoff. This one was the most invasive and caught the most infractions.

I dashed to a spot that looked promising as the crowd clamored to get their bags inspected.

“Single file!” The security officers shouted and, just like that, I ended up at the end of the line.

When eventually it became my turn the guards went through the familiar song and dance.

“Power up your laptop! The other one too!

“What is this?”

“A microphone.”

“Power it up. No, remove the batteries and give them to us.

“No water! Throw it away over here.”

I stood to the side and chugged the enormous bottle of water I had “purified.” I could see little white specks swirling around as it came out of the bottle. The hardness of the liquid made it difficult to swallow. My stomach squirmed as I put the cap back on the now empty bottle.

“Tickets! Passport!”

I showed the guards my documents and was allowed to exit down the steps outside to where I was previously sitting and enjoying the fresh air. The rest of the passengers and I were loosely directed to walk across the tarmac a short distance to a small plane.

Inside the cabin, I was already feeling thirsty and thinking about how to hoard more water for the long journey. I also needed to go to the bathroom but was too afraid to get up. The flight attendants were trying to enforce the assigned seating, however, many of the passengers were disregarding them or just didn’t understand how the system worked. Eventually, after some squabbling and an exchange of loud voices everyone was seated and the plane took off. We were a half an hour ahead of schedule. I took one last glance down at Hargeisa as the buildings grew smaller and smaller and faded into the sands of the desert.