... I know I'm leaving normal now. After all of the flights I have been on, this stands out as the most interesting. The smoking sign is off, a first for me. And the flight attendants came through the cabin and sprayed insecticide - inside the cabin. This is odd, very odd. But I wouldn't have it any other way. Also, no one going to Djibouti was allowed to get off the plane in Jeddah, even for a moment. Saudi Arabia maintains its aura of mystery this way – although there are plenty of people who visit, nearly all on business.

Then, we landed. The world always spins in mystery around my head, showering my eyes with tiny dots of light from the city we're about to land in, and my level of excitement leaps skyward. The cool air of the plane is all I can smell, sitting in the dark in the blue seats, staring at the little lights, trying to connect the dots. I made it – I am entering a region that few would dare, or care, to visit out of their own interest.

The doors opened and I walked straight into the sauna – 32 degrees at 9 in the evening, with one hundred percent humidity. Welcome to Djibouti. No jetways, just one stairwell down to the ground. The rough hum of the engines was all I heard as the hundred of us on the flight wandered over to the terminal. Several dozen women draped in bright fabrics stood excitedly behing an imaginary line. I breathed a sigh of relief after the long walk through the desperate heat into the air conditioned room. The Journey has begun.

"You need a taxi?"

Ah. Familiar words. So how do I deal with it.

"Good price, come, come!"

Yes, so it begins, as it always does. These men were Somali – tall, lanky, curly hair, drifting eyes. Some were wearing dresses – a common thing, for men to wear kilt-like clothes, as I found out. The tallest of them was staring at me intently, glowering over me; surprisingly thin, a tall shadow in the small arrivals area as half a dozen dark shadows hid deeper in the distance hoping I would accept. I made a phone call.
The Sheraton wasn't answering.

"We will take you there. Come!"

Yes, as it always does – into the aging mercedes, green and white, with torn seats. The driver and the tall Somali sat in the front seat. We rolled slowly away from the airport and into the dusty darkness that is the city of Djibouti – no street lights, a few paved roads, clouds of dust blurring the occasional bare light bulbs hung up outside of a door. People everywhere, walking on the side of the road in the pitch black. I could see the Somali in the passenger seat – he was hunched over, grunting, shaking his head. He spoke english. I told him I wanted to visit Somaliland.

"I can help you get there!" he proclaimed, in a deep, searching, yet optimistic voice. He was high on something – or perhaps he was just starving. I couldn't tell. "Boorama is my home, I can help you get there," he said, "tomorrow I will help you."

The price jumped drastically once we arrived at the Sheraton – I hope you know what you're talking about mister Pelton, telling me to stay at a good hotel for my first night in a new city. I don't seem to care anymore – I even budget this into my trip. I paid the two of them far too much for the ride, and then never saw them again. Thanks for the help.

I checked in, went up to my room, and pinched myself. It almost seemed too easy to get here. I had been nearly certain that I wouldn't have been allowed on the flight, as a standby passenger, having to cross through Saudi Arabia. It turns out that it wasn't a concern at all, and my backup trip, heading south from Paris to Morocco, can be left to the young backpackers whom it is better suited for. Here, I have an opportunity to delve into Africa's most troubled region as a whole, a place of perpetual chaos and starvation – or so us in the west believe. Life always goes on no matter where you live. Tomorrow I shall call Daallo Airlines and arrange my sojourn into Somaliland.



Djibouti - The Day

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