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

It was morning. Groggy eyed, I hauled my giant duffle bag and the backpacks full of video equipment down to the Mansoor’s lobby and reported to the front desk that I was checking out. The hotel clerk nodded, then told me it would take some time to add up my bill. He opened and closed numerous drawers and cabinets until he found a pad of paper and a gigantic relic of a calculator. I pushed my luggage behind the counter, shuffled over to an empty table at the adjacent restaurant and took a seat.

I ordered my usual breakfast: a vegetable omelette, somali pancakes, a fruit cocktail, and a coffee. Then I settled in for what I knew would be a long wait; waiting for my food, my hotel bill, my ride to the airport, the dreaded queues, and the endless flight home. 

The restaurant was filling up with the hotel’s guests. Most were aid workers. There were men with crisp ties and dress shirts who looked as if they had momentarily stepped away from their desk at some bureau in the UK. Others, probably from the East African region, wore photographer-style vests covered in pockets and the names of NGOs embroidered on the back. They seemed about to embark on a long, dusty trip into the field. 

There was a similar mixture of women who sometimes sat with the men but more often sat in groups by themselves or alone. They wore bright, traditional dresses and scarves around their heads, save for the European and American types who wore business casual clothing in muted shades of black or gray. These Westerners were self-conscious of their mandatory head scarves and seemed to retreat back into them as if they were a protective cave. 

Beyond the restaurant, in deeper recesses of the lobby, local elders and entrepreneurs gathered. They were in a world unto themselves, rubbing elbows, gabbing, and sipping espresso. A few men wearing suits a size too large took turns using the rickety old computer printer combo in the business center. 

Back in the dining room, almost everyone walled themselves up with their laptops and phones and tried to look busy, even if they were not. Every once in a while a hand would reach behind a monitor and poke around until it found a piece of toast or a cup of tea on the table. Then a group of brazen Kenyan women arrived for breakfast wearing short-sleeved attire and no head coverings at all. When they entered, all eyes in the restaurant darted toward these Lady Godivas and then quickly back down to the computers in front of them, or in my case, the Somali pancake that had finally arrived.

After I ate, I walked back over to the front desk to check out. I was told it would take some time to retrieve and add on the bill for my Somali pancake. It was an assessment that proved to be correct. Finally, my waiter appeared with a slip of paper and after much punching of the calculator’s enormous buttons and verifying and reverifying the figures, I was presented with the total amount. I paid with crisp $100 USD bills. The balance, around three dollars and some change, was handed back to me in a big wad of Somali shillings. I put them in my wallet only to realize it was now too thick to close so I jammed them in my pocket and waddled out the door of the Mansoor with all my luggage one last time.

Outside, it was already hot. I watched the giant tortoise creep past the security guards to a shady place where an unknown caretaker had left some salad for it to munch on. Eventually Mo’ arrived and helped me put my stuff in the SUV. Then we took the bumpy, dusty route across town to the airport. Mo’ veered down side streets to avoid traffic, but he still had to navigate the donkeys pulling wagons, the camels on their way to market, and the odd goats with phone numbers spray painted on their sides. The radio was on a news station and, whenever I heard Donal Trump’s name punctuate the otherwise Somali broadcast, I wondered if I would ever return to this place.

I held my last wad of khat against my cheek but it was no longer fresh. Rather than an energizing, cappuccino-like high, it just gave me a headache and made my gums and throat sore. The SUV windows were locked so I fished around for an old kleenex in my bag and spit it out. It was time to go home.