Remembering my trip to Berbera in 2016. Names have been changed to protect the innocent.
We drove through the desert until the Nasa Hablood mountains poked up on the horizon, indicating we were back in Hargeisa. Homes and businesses began dotting the roadside until we found ourselves in congested streets. Mo’ dropped Amit off at his house.
“I need to get ready for a football match tonight,” he said as he rushed out of the SUV. “Good seeing you, J-P. I hope the Foundation likes the video. Safe travels back to the U.S.”
He seemed relieved to be done with me after our adventures.
As another thank you gesture, I offered to buy the serikales more khat. Instead, we ended up driving through a dense marketplace until they convinced me to give them cash instead. As soon as I did, they dispersed into the crowd without much of a goodbye.
Finally, the SUV rumbled through the familiar gates of the Hargeisa Monsoor hotel and Mo’ dropped us off. The security guards greeted us, half-heartedly waved their metal detectors through our sandy belongings, and inspected the camera equipment. A giant tortoise lumbered near the checkpoint. Donny and I made our way to the lobby. Donny mumbled something about how he had an interesting time even though he got sunburned. Then he went to his room.
I looked around. Groups of men, mostly elders, huddled around the big screen TVs broadcasting Al Jazeera in the lobby. The newscasters obsessively spoke about the dark horse American presidential candidate, Donald Trump. I shuddered. It would be a different experience for me in this place if he ever came to power. My attention was soon diverted away from the TV to the front desk where my friends behind it welcomed me back.
“How was the coast?” The manager asked.
“Wonderful! Mansoor Berbera is very nice,” I replied.
“Did you visit Las Geel?”
“Yes, I actually did for the first time. What an amazing place.”
The manager handed me my room key. It was attached to a giant placard connected to avoid loss or theft. The locksmith had been called one too many times to this hotel.
I intended to freshen up and get some rest before the next day and a half of flying back home, but in the end I did not. I was too excited from the trip and from the new wad of khat in my mouth that I had somehow smuggled into the hotel. I was anxious about not being able to consume it all before the flight. Previously, airline passengers were able to take khat on the plane. The first time I departed from Somaliland, I chewed it all the way to Addis Ababa. The rules had changed since. Traveling with khat on an airplane is now prohibited.
At the restaurant adjacent to the lobby, I found Matt, a colleague of mine from the Foundation, who also traveled to Hargeisa for the investment conference, in the bright, sunlit atrium. I joined him at his table and my old waiter friend came to take our order: Arabian foul and a fruit cocktail. While we waited for our food, Matt and I gossiped about work. He and his wife moved to Oregon and the Foundation was uneasy about him still being productive away from the office. The conversation turned to the conference. Some of the panelists were more engaged in the event than others. Despite the Foundation providing generous per diems and covering international travel expenses, a few participants – Donny’s name came up – hadn’t even prepared presentations for the eager Somali entrepreneurs.
Matt casually asked about my trip to Berbera and I gladly recounted it for him, rambling along at a very high speed, uninhibited from the khat. My mind was sharp, but I got lost several times in the sheer volume of information I was injecting into what was now a one-sided conversation.
“And that’s how Donny got a free trip to the beach!” I blurted out at one point, banging my hand down on the table for emphasis, before continuing on to the next part of my travelogue. I kept going, every detail was important to include.
“And that’s how Donny got a free trip to see some prehistoric cave art!” I finally concluded. It was a glorious punchline to the end of my story. I let out a jovial belly laugh in triumph as a way to indicate to Matt I was done with my tale. He responded with a polite chuckle. I hardly even noticed, I was beside myself, relishing my own cleverness.
A new waiter finally brought our food to the table. I forced myself to eat despite my lack of appetite. The fruit cocktail went down easier, however, and I ordered another. More time passed and the check came, or rather, we called across the dining room for it. Our first waiter returned and apologized profusely as he handed us our bill. He explained he had been on an extended smoke break.
Once the check was settled and we got up to leave, I noticed Donny sitting by himself at a table within earshot behind us. I said hello and tried striking up another chatty conversation. He was reserved in his responses, polite and formal; not what I would expect after three days of travel and adventure. No doubt he was offended in some way by the commentary he overheard. Shocked, embarrassed, and regretful, I wished him safe travels. Like waking up with a hangover after a long night of drinking, I tried to remember what I had said. Despite my feelings of clarity, my recollections were foggy.
Exhausted, I went back to my room to get some sleep. Instead, I tossed and turned with restless jitters. That was partly due to the khat, but most of my nervousness came from thinking about the next days’ journey home to the United States. Periodically, I’d jolt up from my half-sleep and turn on the TV. I scanned through the channels for one of the old 1990s American b-movies the Saudis were so fond of broadcasting. I found nothing of interest so I turned the set off and tried to rest. An hour later I got impulsive and tried again. This went on until right before dawn when I fell asleep. Soon after, my alarm went off.