Arrival

Our UN airplane landed in a desert, not on a tarmac. The airport was basically a tree, a sign, and a small building in the distance. I wasn’t allowed into Puntland without first swallowing a liquid polio vaccination administered to me in a tent by WHO officials dressed in white biohazard suits. My passport was taken away from me at customs to be “processed” during my stay.

From the airport my coworkers and security team took me to the Adam Smith guesthouse where I’d be staying. It was just down the street from the UNICEF headquarters. I was given a tour of the lodgings by my host, a young Italian woman who worked with a local IT NGO.

I was shown my room, the kitchen, how to work the DVD player, and tune the TV. My host took me into the bathroom and explained it doubled as a safe room. She demonstrated how to secure the door and pointed out I would need to fill the tub up to the brim with water if an emergency occurred. I went back to my room. It was modest: a twin bed with a thin mattress, a semi-working air conditioner, a writing desk, and an Ikea-type wardrobe.

Behind some curtains there was a small balcony. I opened the door and walked out into the glaring sun and blasting heat. The view of the town was dusty, sepia tinted, and punctuated by colorful rooftops. I heard a cooing noise and looked down to see an injured white dove hobbling at my feet. There was a small red dot of blood on its wing. Its mate flapped frantically above in distress. Not knowing what to do I gave it a dish of water and closed the door, hoping it would fly away.

Old Spaghetti Factory

That evening my coworker invited me to dinner at the old spaghetti factory restaurant (no affiliation with the American franchise). There was a large military presence on the roads driving there because the government decided to execute three Al-Shabab fighters. They were captured after fights with the Puntland Armed Forces in the Galaga mountains to the north.

On the way to the restaurant, our driver got impatient at a checkpoint and tried to cut the line. We were ordered to pull over. I was taken out of the SUV and roughly frisked by two soldiers who looked barely eighteen. I prayed they wouldn’t ask for my passport or find my camera in our vehicle.

The boys didn’t. Instead, they radioed ahead to the next checkpoint and we were immediately pulled out of our vehicle again when we reached it. This soldier was younger than the last two and screamed at me at the top of his lungs, showing off for a smaller child who happened to be crossing the street with his toddler brother. More yelling continued, alternating between me and then into a CB radio. Then we were allowed to get back into our SUV.

We ate at the restaurant and the spaghetti was pretty good. The place was run by a diaspora man who recently returned home. The factory was abandoned by Italian colonists years ago but still made good noodles. Most of the dishes were mixed with camel meat, but on special request, the owner obliged me with a red sauce.

Around Town

At dinner I got a call that I was a couple thousand dollars short on the bill for my security detail. They only take cash in Puntland and there are no ATMs. This security detail showed up the next day, but the payment shortage continued to weigh on my mind. As we visited different clients, I noticed Al Shabaab graffiti on walls all over town.

We talked with a farmer outside of town and I drank fresh camel milk from his herd. It was still hot and foamy with a smoky taste to it. Camel milk has a special aura in these parts. It is seen as a superpower-producing drink. However, you should not drink it before a long trip (as I had done) because it encourages frequent bowel movements. You also should not consume it before surgery. The anesthesia will not work if there is camel milk is in your system, I am told.

Approximately 22 kilometers east of Garowe, near Gibgale, a convoy of soldiers passed us on the highway. Then they pulled over so that four US Special Forces could get out and take a piss on the side of the road. I couldn’t see the flags on their uniforms but they looked like our guys. What gave their Americanness away was that they all had hairy lumberjack beards like something out of the movie Zero Dark Thirty. I am not sure why they were out there. Maybe it had something to do with the fighting in the Galaga mountains.

That night I was served dinner by the Italians, a big world-weary, nerdy-looking guy joined the woman. They both chatted, watched TV, and ignored me. I sat at the kitchen counter and pushed food around my plate. I requested a vegetarian meal with my reservation but once again camel meat was mixed into the spaghetti. I quietly made my way to my room where I had a ration of protein powder and a Clif bar. The dove was still outside where I left it. The water was untouched and its mate perched nearby in silent vigil.

Farewell

My pleas back to my office in the United States to pay the security firm must’ve worked because I received a message things were being sorted out in Hargeisa. My four-man team pulled up to take me to the back to airport. They also talked with the customs agents on my behalf. I paid a $120 “visa” fee and my passport was returned to me just in time for my flight.

The compound’s guard helped me pack up the SUV.

“Did you enjoy your stay, sir?” He asked, grinning.

“Yes, Garowe is a fine town,” I replied. “I hope to return soon.”

Then, for some reason I was compelled to tell him about the wounded dove in my room. The caretaker might not see it and it could die.

An eager look appeared on the guard’s face. He stopped what we has doing and walked hastily back to the guest house in the direction of my room. My heart sank.

We arrived to the airport with plenty of time to spare. It was a good thing too because the flight left early. On the the little airplane back to Hargeisa we stopped in Galkayo to pick up some aid workers. We were not permitted to get out during the layover.

A week later an Al-Shabab member blew himself up at the UNICEF headquarters, killing a van full of aid workers. Going forward, my work supervisors felt my travel was too much of a liability and expense so I never had the opportunity to return to Puntland after that trip.

Snapshots