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

We arrived at the harbor in a rush to intercept the fishing boat but were too late. The catch was already being moved to a sedan where a man was tossing buckets of ice into the trunk and back seats. Fish were packed in layers in between the ice until the trunk could barely latch. Then the driver hopped in and the car took off at full speed in the direction of Hargeisa. The harbor was nearly empty now and our party sweated under the midday sun.

We were famished. At this point we really had no other choice but to regroup and strategize over lunch at Hotel Barwaaqo.

Across town on the main road, near the coast guard barracks, was an ancient looking gate. It was here in its portico that Berbera’s drivers parked their SUVs and their clients meandered behind its fortified walls into a courtyard to dine.

Mo’ parked and insisted, as he always did, that he stay behind and guard our vehicle while we ate. We would send lunch back to him.

Inside the bustling courtyard were tables and tents filled with diners. In the center was a bubbling fountain. An small octopus, an enormous starfish, and a blue lobster drifted along the bottom. It was unclear if these creatures were part of the restaurant’s ambiance or on the menu. One of the many waiters guided us to a private room. Feral cats prowled behind us. Along the way there was a faucet and we took turns washing our hands with an old bar of soap and splashing water over our gritty faces and down our sunburned necks. 



Once settled in around the table, the waiters only asked for our drink orders (fruit cocktails and bottled water). After that the offerings were prix-fixed. A plate of dates appeared to help subdue our hunger pangs. Amit tossed pebbles to deter the cats.

As we waited in the cool shade, the cooks in the back sweated over giant, subterranean tandoori ovens. Coals glowed deep inside of them over a bed of sand. Entire skipjacks were slit open and fanned out along the bottom. Dough was then slapped along the brick walls of the inferno until they bubbled and crisped into enormous pieces of chapati. The fish and the bread came out at once, steaming as they were dished onto silver serving plates and jostled back to our table with much fanfare and a trough of shigney chile sauce. 



There was a brief squabble with the waiters about the pesky cats and a delayed fruit cocktail, but not much could be done about either. It didn’t matter. The tender meat of the fresh fish was pulled from the bone by hand, separated from the skin, or not, then sandwiched in between the pillowy, slightly charred, chapati. The morsels were dunked into the bowl shigney and consumed in delicious bites. 

There was too much food. The cats knew that and waited until our guards were down and then made bold attempts to jump on the table. This went on until we were gorged and unable to continue to put up a fight. As we waited for the check, the felines pounced on the dishes of remaining food. 

After another forlorned yet fascinated glance at the octopus, I washed my greasy hands and presented a wad of Somali shillings to the waiter station in the middle of the restaurant. 

The latrines in the back were dodgy.  However, you never know when you’ll have the opportunity again so a pit stop was mandatory. Afterward, the woman on duty cleaned the toilet I used with a bucket of salt water. We all piled back into Mo’’s vehicle, drowsy and relishing the time we had in the car before the next phase of the trip. Amit and I were still trying to figure out what that would be exactly. Without a clear plan on how to film the fishermen fishing we decided to journey back to the harbor and, once again, look for an opportunity to present itself.