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

Once again, Mo’ pulled into Berbera harbor. It was mid-afternoon and for the few fishermen who were still around, it was the end of their day. Amit leaned over.

“Do you need the fish to be alive when the fishermen catch them?” He said.

“What?” I replied.

“For your movie,” he elaborated.

Before I could tell Amit I didn’t understand, J-‘s men carried a container of fish on ice out of the cold storage. We missed our opportunity to intercept their boat returning with their catch. However, there were enough fish around we could stage something for the recording.

“That works for me,” I replied to Amit..

I gathered the camera equipment. Amit, Donny, and our three guards sauntered over to the jetty. Children clamored around; some jumped off the pier into the harbor’s waters as we passed them. The fishermen got back into their boat and the guards helped lower our team down into another vessel. It was a rickety thing, wooden with an outboard motor and operated by a fisherman who was presumably coaxed into the situation.

From the pier, Mo’ watched our boats set out. We passed fleets of simple fishing boats anchored for the evening and sunken ships from the war, intentionally sunk to protect the harbor from storms. Nearby bobbled a colorful Iranian dhow and further down were rows of huge container ships docked at Berbera Port.

We emerged from the maze of anchored vessels to find ourselves looking straight up at soldiers standing high above at their post on a jetty. There was some yelling back and forth in Somali before Amit explained to me that the Somaliland Coast Guard was suspicious of us. I was a foreigner with a camera, who was lurking around territorial waters. Even though they didn’t recognize me, this wasn’t my first interaction with the soldiers. I visited their station twice before with a colleague who ran a capacity building program sponsored by the Western navies. I even accompanied them on patrol; at one point we busted a crew illegally dumping livestock manure into the harbor. That was more than a year ago but I must have a forgettable face.

I thought my adventure in Berbera would end there or maybe continue on with an exchange of money, but somehow someone on the boat convinced the soldiers I wasn’t a threat. With a shrug they begrudgingly waved us on by. There was a small cheer of relief and some jokes at my expense in Somali. Throughout the whole episode, I was trying desperately to get the camera to take a proper photo, I was failing. It was mid-afternoon and the sun overhead threw dark shadows across my subjects. The light bounced along the surface of the water and rendered the vibrant seascape from earlier that morning flat and gray. 

I did not travel halfway across the globe only to find out I am a hack of a photographer when it matters most. I messed with the dials on the camera but to no avail. It was really, really hot now out on the water. I was pouring out sweat and realized I left my water bottle with Mo’ in the SUV. Our captain cranked up the motor and the ship jutted off into a welcome gust of sea breeze. Then the boat lurched up and crashed into the waves, taking us to our destination somewhere out on the horizon. The choppy water made it very difficult to hold the camera steady, let alone change lenses or try to do anything but hold on and try to keep myself and all of the equipment from making a fateful splash into the Gulf of Aden. No one was wearing life preservers.

To the port-side a far off sandbar grew out of the waves. On it a small, desolate shelter made of sticks and tarps sat under a towering, handsome lighthouse. Presumably it was built in colonial times; it had red and white stripes, like a barber shop sign. The paint had faded from the battering of sun and storms. Even if it wasn’t operational, it still held a commanding view of the harbor. I trained my eye on the lighthouse to steady my equilibrium and prevent the oncoming sea sickness. We were making our way now to a small fishing vessel in the distance.

The boat rocked back and forth. It was great fun for everyone on board except me. I balanced myself and tried to get a decent photo. The autofocus jammed; I switched to manual and the next burst of shots were overexposed. I was sweating. I squeezed the shutter and the boat went over its own wake. I looked down at the LCD screen to find another blurry shot.

We moved in closer. Two men were casting a net into the sea. It was not empty. Dozens of fish  were woven through the ropes so they would not fall back into the ocean.

“It’s okay if the fish are already dead?” Asked Amit over the boat’s motor.

I didn’t even care anymore.

The men, the net, and the fish were all silhouettes, backlit by the sun. I squinted at the scene. Then, somehow, my dehydrated brain had a moment of clarity and assertion.

“Slow down the boat!” I yelled uncharacteristically to the captain. “Move the boat to the other side of these fishermen.”

The captain adjusted his grip and steered us around. The waters calmed and the fishing boat became illuminated in my viewfinder. Well, it wasn’t exactly crystal clear, but I was finally able to rack focus. The resulting shots weren’t great but could be touched-up in Photoshop.

The fishermen, also beaded with sweat, heroically pulled up the nets from the Red Sea and extracted the fish; big looking things that they handled like trophies before tossing them back into a long ice chest. The lighthouse sat picturesque in the background. At last, I had a composition that was worth my trip. My finger twitched up and down on the camera’s shutter. I figured if I took hundreds of photos, the odds of one of them being acceptable were good.

All the fish were back in the boat so we headed back to the harbor. I was exhausted and elated. The guards never stopped laughing at me. When we got to the pier a crowd of children gathered around to gawk at sunburned Donny and me.

As we emerged from the maze of anchored vessels, we found ourselves looking up at soldiers high up on a jetty. There was some yelling back and forth in Somali before Ahmed explained to me that the Somaliland Coast Guard was suspicious of me, a foreigner with a camera, lurking around territorial waters. This wasn’t my first interaction with the guard. I had visited their station twice before with a colleague who was running a capacity building program sponsored by the navies of Western powers. I even accompanied them on patrol at one point, but that was over a year before and I tend to have a forgettable face.

I thought the adventure would end there or at least continue on with an exchange of money, but somehow someone on the boat convinced them that I wasn’t a threat and they begrudgingly waved us on by. There was a small cheer of relief and some jokes at my expense in Somali. Throughout the whole episode, I was trying desperately to get the camera to take a proper photo and was distracted. It was mid afternoon and the sun overhead threw dark shadows across my subjects and bounced along the surface of the water rendering the vibrant seascape from earlier that morning flat and grey. I had traveled halfway across the globe only to find out I was a hack of a photographer when it mattered most.

I messed with the dials on the camera but to no avail. It was really, really hot now out on the water and I was pouring out sweat. I had left my water bottle with Mohammed in the Land Cruiser. Our captain cranked up the motor and the ship jutted off into a welcome gust of sea breeze. Then the boat lurched up and crashed into the waves as it took us to our destination somewhere out on the horizon. This made it very difficult to hold the camera steady, let alone change lenses or try to do anything but hold on, trying to keep myself and all of the equipment from making one fateful splash into the Gulf of Aden. No one was wearing life preservers.

To port-side a sandbar grew out of the waves in the distance and above a small desolate shelter made of sticks and tarps towered a handsome lighthouse, presumably from colonial times. It was red and white striped, like a barber shop sign. The paint was faded from the battering surf of storms, but it still held a commanding view of the harbor even if it wasn’t operational. I trained my eye on the lighthouse to steady my equilibrium and keep from getting sea sick as we made our way to another small fishing vessel out in the distance.

The boat rocked back and forth. It was great fun for everyone on board except me. I balanced myself and tried to get a decent photo. The autofocus would jam and so I would switch it to manual but then it was so bright and I was so sweaty that when the shutter finally closed it produced a blurry shot.

To men were casting a net into the sea. Instead of it being empty, it was full of fish woven through the ropes.

“It’s okay if the fish are already dead?” Asked Ahmed.

I didn’t even care anymore.

The men, the net, and the fish were silhouettes, backlit by the sun. As I perceived the scene, somehow my dehydrated brain had a moment of clarity and assertion.

“Slow down the boat!” I yelled uncharacteristically to the captain. “Move the boat to the other side of these fisherman.”

The captain adjusted his grip and steered us around. The waters calmed and the fishing boat became illuminated in my viewfinder. Well, it wasn’t exactly crystal clear, but I was finally able to rack focus and the shots weren’t great but they could be made decent in Photoshop.

The fishermen, beaded with sweat, heroically pulled up the nets from the Red Sea and extracted the fish, big looking things, that they handled like trophies before tossing them back into a long ice chest. The lighthouse sat picturesque in the background and the composition was at last worth the trip. My finger twitched up and down on the camera’s shutter button, toggling back and forth to record in video and lapping it all in.

Then all the fish and the net were back in the boat and we headed back to the harbor. I was exhausted and elated. The guards never stopped laughing at me. When we got to the pier a crowd of children and teens gathered around to gawk at sunburned Johnny and me.