The Detouring Doctor

Yes, that’s me on an old Soviet made Ethiopian tank. It is only fitting that any narrative about Eritrea begins here at junkyard for military hardware on the outskirts of Asmara. This is a country forged in the crucible of war. It is a short 27 ears since the country final achieved independence after a long and bloody civil war with Ethiopia that stretches back to the late 1970s when Ethiopia’s last emperor Haille Sailassie was still in power. Most of the conflict was conducted on the Ethiopian side by the repressive Communist regime known as the Derg that ousted Sailassie and ruled with an iron fist, with Soviet support throughout the 1980s.

It was a bloody war with the larger, numerically stronger Russian backed Ethiopians conducting waves of assaults within Eritrea. Over more than a decade of war the Eritrean rebels were on the back foot, constantly yielding territory until the Ethiopians controlled the capitol Asmara and most of the inland territory of Eritrea. In the early 1990s the rebels pushed back at a time when domestic pressures and the collapse of their main backer the USSR resulted in the Ethiopian dictator Mengistu fleeing to the safe haven of that “paragon” of human rights and democracy, Robert Mugabe in Zimbabwe. The Eritreans won their land back and, for the first time independence. Sadly that has not resulted in a democratic state and as, so often happens in Africa, another dictator steps in and this place has been ruled by the one man in a one party state without election to this day.

This place has been described as the North Korea of Africa. It is neither socialist nor communist. The prevailing politics is more there to keep the dictator in power. Part of this process is isolation from the outside world and not much information leaks into or out of this place. Visas are difficult to obtain. Flights in and out are sparse and travel anywhere outside the capitol Asmara is restricted and permits are required and travel must be with a guide. I am looking forward to seeing as much as I can of this “closed” country.

Speeding along the glassy turquoise seas past a massive container ship I look forward and muse over the fact that we have 2 uniformed soldiers carrying Kalashnikovs sitting at the bow. A sailor looks down from high up on the deck of the Tanzanian ship. Did he even for a split second think that we may have been Somali pirates?

The sun is beating down on us as the inclement weather of the last couple of days is just a distant memory. Our little speed boat skims over the Gulf of Aden across Berbera’s harbour and after an hour our destination comes into view. We jump overboard onto a tiny patch of sand that barely qualifies as an island. Perched on it is a red and white “candy cane” lighthouse that is rusting and sadly out of action.In typically African fashion that does not mean that this outpost is deserted as a couple of locals live at the base of it ostensibly to keep a watch out against invasion.

At the end of my week here I reflect on what was it like travelling through Somaliland. Did I feel safe here? Well, yes and no. Armed guards always tip the odds in your favour of course. I felt safe in the capitol, Hargeisa, much less so in the rural back blocks of Berbera where there was a distinctly hostile xenophobic vibe.
Overall the country is quite barren and dry and the cities and towns are pretty basic African meets Middle East affairs, poor and run down. Infrastructure is basic but there are some impressive buildings built with foreign aid. Education and health care all costs the Somali money with no real government subsidy.
For the tourists, hotels could best be described as spartan. Service everywhere happens at snails pace. Somali cuisine is unspectacular consisting of spice rubbed grilled meat, fish and rice. Interetingly the influence is Middle Eastern with quite a hit of cardamom as a spice.Of course there is no alcohol.
Infrastructre wise this is a newly developed country having to rebuild after most buidings having been razed by war and then rebuilt. All is low rise here. The roads even in the heart of town are geerally dirt and potholed and the traffic is frequently at a standstill.
Most of people are genuinely friendly and interested in the,for them, stange sight of white skinned humans in their midst.Having said that there are a few who go out of their way to be difficult. THe females in our group where sometimes chided for some perceived breach of the local dress codes despite them covering up and wearing hijabs. Similarly, as I have experienced in other Muslim societies photography can be a real issue. There are frequent times when after having a chat with someone I ask if I can photograph them or their wares, Having gained their permisiion there is always some unrelated (usually male) bystander who tries to come over the top bullying both me and the pliant local preventing the photograph. At its worst here in the market a young lady engaged me and took me through the meat hall to her families stand. I made small talk with the man running that counter and eventually asked if I could take a picture of his meat stand (excluding both him and the girl who had moved to one side. I had no sooner finished the photo when I saw out of the corner of my eye a guy from a stall further up and well away yelling and brandishing a butcher’s knife threatening to throw it at me. Scary stuff and I high tailed it out of there.

This was an interesting trip to an area that is shunned by tourists due to decades of ongoing civil war.While it is bereft of any “big ticket” natural attractions. It affords an interesting insight of a resourceful and resilient populace determined to carve out a modern coherent society rebuilding from the devastation of war. These people are proudly succeeding.

It is close to midnight and the teeming rain hammers our corrugated roof. I have never experienced rain like it! Despite this hotel being particularly downmarket we do have aircon that actually works until a massive clap of thunder and all power is lost until the next day. Fortunately the storm means that our overnight low is only mid 20s rather than the more usual 30 for this time of year. Nonetheless it was a hot and sweaty night’s sleep.This place gets only 5-8 days rain per year and we have experienced 2 of them already. The rest of the time it is dry and searingly hot.
This morning it is still raining heavily and many of the streets here are underwater.

There is no prospect of going on our boat ride so we head for the hills to a village called Sheikh. It is a scenic 2 hour drive up there on a winding hairpin bend road. The view from the top back to Berbera on the coast was beatiful despite the clouds. The highlight here was the remains of the British garrison built in 1901 and decommissioned in 1941.

Berbera itself is the only sheltered deep water harbour on the Gulf of Aden. In ancient times it traded spices, food, Frankincense and Myrrh with Egypt and Yemen. In medieval times it was part of the slave trade. During British colonial times it was the capitol of what was then British Somaliland. In modern times it has been a militarily strategic port successively for UK, Italy, USSR and USA.Today it is also the major trading port for Somaliland and neighbouring Ethiopia.
For a city with such a proud and long history all I have to say is that it is pretty bloody awful now. There are tantalising glimpses of old Arabic and colonial architecture but it is all terribly run down. Everywhere there are shells of buildings that look like they have been bombed but they have just fallen apart as there was never any significant fighting here. It is dilapidated and dirty and in this place the demeanour of the locals matches that of the place.

The women on the tour here have experienced the most hassles in Berbera. Respectful attempts at photography through consent are met with hostility. We have seen 2 ugly street brawls between locals. Even photographing local buildings elicits an angry rebuke from the locals. Late in the afternoon our bus stops for us to take photos of the outside of a mosque. A maniac on the roof hurls abuse and a large stone at us which lands a couple of feet in front of me. This is an environment hostile towards us, unlike in Hargeisa I would not dream of wandering in the streets without our armed guard here.

I will be happy to head back to Hargeisa tomorrow.

I awaken to grey sky and rain, not quite what I expected for the horn of Africa. The forecast is for a class 1 tropical storm. We leave Hargeisa after breakfast for the 3 hour drive to the coastal port city of Berbera. Overnight rains have transformed dips in the road into river crossings that our tough, colourful bus negotiates with ease. Halfway along we turn left onto a dirt 4 WD track that tests our driver and vehicle a bit more but both pass with ease.
Our destination is Laas Geel caves. Situated in the middle of nowhere this stunning collection of rock art was only discovered by archaeologists in 2002. Dated to between 5000 and 9000 years ago it features some of the most vibrant rock art that I have ever seen. The dominant theme and the most beautiful feature cattle but there is man, giraffe and wolves here. A short but steep climb takes me to the first of 6 caves. These are not fully enclosed caves rather crevices in the rock much like the aboriginal paintings in northern Australia. They have not undergone restoration so the colours and clarity are all the more impressive. Worryingly, because of the history of war and the fact that Somaliland is a self proclaimed but not recognised independent state, it has no UNESCO world heritage protection. the For an archaeology enthusiast like me this was easily the highlight of my trip here.

Our drive onward to Berbera was marred by getting bogged in the soft sand and having to dig and push the bus out.

At Berbera leaden clouds and rain force a cancellation of our planned beach afternoon.

I hear the unmistakable braying snort of camel and the scuffle of hooves. I run to the dusty source of the commotion, two camels fighting. One is frothing profusely at the mouth and he is the aggressor. As I arrive the cameleers rain down blows from their batons but the camels seem to be oblivious. I take pictures but the thought crosses my mind that there is an element of cruelty in the unfolding scene.

Markets are the best way to really get a feel for any culture but more so in the developing world. At this unusual market a buyer with a keen eye and haggling powers can pick up a camel for the princely sum of $1200. A goat, by contrast is an absolute steal at $70 US.

This daily market happens on the outskirts of Hargeisa and just as with the market last night, affords a fascinating glimpse of the Somali lifestyle. Not only that there is also the opportunity to photograph one of nature’s more whimsical creations, the camel.

As it is the first day of Ramadan here the lunch options are few and far between and it is back to our hotel for a lunch away frome the fasting populace.
The afternoon excursion to a nomad village near the Ethiopian border fizzled as the old matriarch of the encampment gives us a frosty reception and refuses to show us around. To fill the gap our guide takes us to a plane parked in the middle of a paddock that is being converted to a restaurant. It is also closed. A random “cold call” to a nearby orphanage yielded a better welcome.

First impressions here are underwhelming. This is the capitol city of the yet to be recognised breakaway state of Somaliland. The drive in is along dusty potholed streets. The squat buildings are shabby in a way that is downmarket even by African standards. It is the back story, though, that inspires. After decades of civil war this city was practically obliterated. All that I see has been built in the last 17 years and this is now a city of 1 million people. In that time they have also managed to create a stable government and society which for all its faults speaks volumes for the resilience of these proud people. The vibe is upbeat and as this place literally only sees a handful of tourists annually we are feted as celebrities by the locals.
Our morning is spent seeing the tiny and basic museum and cultural centre.

The afternoon has us bush bashing in our bus to get as close as possible to the twin hills just outside Hargeisa that look like and are locally known as woman’s breasts (Naaso Hablood).

The best of the day, though was in the late afternoon myself and two others going out independently into the massive market in the heart of town and experiencing the chaos, colour, sounds and smells of this vital establishment. This is the form of travelling that sees me in my element.

The horn of Africa has a varied colonial history. Strategically the main game here is access to the Red Sea and Pacific Ocean and the countries here were valued as conduits for trade from the landlocked African countries to the outside world. Italy, France and Britain were all actively staking their claims here throughout the late 19th and early 20th centuries with Italy, interestingly being the most active. In 1960 British Somaliland (which is where I am going) became independent and joined with the Italian Somaliland to form the Somali Republic, a decision that they almost immediately regretted and have been trying to reverse to this day. Indeed French Somaliland also joined in but have subsequently broken away to become the tiny independent country of Djibouti. Decades of dictatorship followed by a breakdown in any meaningful government in Mogadishu has left British Somaliland in political limbo.
They have responded by building a completely separate state within a state. They have their own government, armed forces, police force, currency, hospitals and schools. They have their own separarte visa and do not accept Somali visas. They have applied for admission into the UN as a stand alone independent country. Unfortunately they have not been accepted. It is into this country that I am going into. There is said to be no terrorist threat here and I am on an organised tour group suitable reassured by the presence of a gun carrying guard!

Overland travel, especially through the developing, occasionally has one at a border looking across at a “no go” country. These are countries at war or unsafe for reasons such as disease or terrorist activity. Such moments inspire in me an immense curiosity of what the place and people are actually like. A curiosity that feeds upon itself and has me wondering about the possibility of actually crossing the border.
In 1987 near the end of 2 months back packing through East Africa I found myself on the northern Kenyan island of Lamu, a stone’s throw from the Somali border and the capitol Mogadishu. I toyed with the idea of crossing into Somalia and clearly remember the Lonely Planet guide of the time wax lyrical about miles of beautiful golden beaches, shark infested waters and the politically unstable situation under the Marxist dictator Mohamed Siad Barre a man that the UN described at the time as having one of the worst human rights records in Africa.
In 2008 on a trip to Ethiopia I visited the city of Harare set right up aganst the Somali border and at one road intersection was wistfully gazing across into a failed state. A country racked by terrorism and warring clans. A country in which the terrorist organisation Al-Shabab kidnaps foreigners and holds them for ransom as well as practising piracy on the high seas.
On Tuesday I will be there.