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.
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The SUV rumbled through the familiar gates of the Hargeisa Monsoor hotel. The security guards greeted us and half-heartedly waved their metal detectors through our sandy belongings. A giant tortoise lumbered near the checkpoint.
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The art looked brand new to me even though the museum stated they were at least 20,000 years old. I tried to fathom the eons that passed from their creation to the present time as I gazed at the rocks. It made my head spin
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We found ourselves at a wooden kiosk decorated with colorful hand-painted signs depicting juicy bundles of khat. Vendors came out from behind the booth, displaying their wares cheerfully like budtenders at a dispensary back in Colorado. They hunched into the windows of our vehicles waving bunches of leaves. Everyone suddenly was a connoisseur.
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The coastline behind me was empty save for a few camel herders in the distance who were feeding their animals and making camp for the night. The sun set in a brilliant glow.
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There was nothing left for us to do except drive back to the Mansoor, try to find a working air conditioner, drink some fruit cocktails, and eat more fish. Mo’ drove us back to the hotel, passing through town. The call to prayer echoed in the streets and Berbera’s residents roused themselves from their midday slumber to pray, converse, trade, chew khat, and drink tea. Kerosene waifed in through the open windows of our SUV.
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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.
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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.
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The men hollered at each other to push. Still, the boat wouldn’t budge. The sound of the SUV grew louder, its wheels spun in place. Wisps of smoke bellowed around them. The men threw all their weight into the vessel. Their legs sucked into the sand until they were waist deep in the water. Then there was a metallic snap. The chain was free, arcing through the air. Everyone abandoned their posts to flee to safety.
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With a wad of khat wadded discreetly in his cheek, his calloused fingers inched the volume up on the SUV’s stereo. A USB stick plugged into a cigarette lighter adaptor fed blaring traditional Somali lute classics over the worn speakers.
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