Arabia slowly gained light on me at six in the morning; peeking in from behind the drapes of the opulent hotel room of the Sheraton, a blue sea drifted out into the horizon. I could see large crabs chasing after each other on the beach.
And after breakfast, a call to Daallo; and the worst news possible. All flights to Somaliland have been suspended until further notice – I was stuck on the other end of the line wondering what to do next.
Well, ask if there is a Somaliland consulate in Djibouti – surely there must be. And actually, after a taxi driver drove me three blocks to the Somalian embassy, I found out that there wasn't.
The embassy is a decaying old mansion, and I was let behind the iron gates by a young African, without a word being exchanged. Inside: a dark house with no furniture and five men lying on the floor, one listening to a scratchy little radio. He only spoke French.

Now – I'm not bad at French but I rarely hear it as it's supposed to be spoken, and the accent of a mile-a-minute-talking African is often difficult to comprehend. He confirmed that there was no consulate for Somaliland; Somaliland is Somalia, he said, and this is the embassy. End of story.

Never trust a taxi driver anywhere, as the one I rode three blocks and back charged me 8 bucks for the priveledge. Back inside the Sheraton, at the business centre, I heard a different story entirely from the friendly secretary. Somaliland did indeed have a consulate, and the ambassador stays at this hotel. He should be down in a few minutes, she said. So I sat and waited, watching the odd company of rich Africans and richer westerners that frequent this hotel. And, I waited. And waited.

...And then checked out and gave up. I didn't know what to do – the taxi driver had said that there were no buses to Boorama; and no flights either. Would I have to delete Somaliland from my itinerary? Downtown I took a room at a much cheaper hotel, and began wandering around in the desperate heat, hoping for something to happen. Djibouti the city is hot, run down, and rather destitute: streets are littered with car parts and gutted trucks, buildings are faded and eery relics of a lengthy French history. Sleeping people litter the sidewalks. And when I wandered down to the presidential palace, something did happen.



"Hello, hello! Where are you from?" a man asked – typical African curiousity to be sure. I told him, told him what I was doing and that I wanted to enter Somaliland. He was eager to help out. As he would be, of course, since there is always a monetary return to his behalf. Is he a guide? Probably. We'll see how much he wants tomorrow morning.



I had lunch with him – fish and pita bread cooked in a pit filled with wood embers – covered in honey and lime, it was divine. "Tomorrow you can go to Boorama. Or you can go at four today. When do you want to go?" As fast as possible, of course, since Djibouti is not exactly a hub of activity anyways. I had seen the city, essentially, in half an hour.

I mentioned the man I was going to visit in Boorama, the man I had a letter for – Said Jama. I had met a man on the internet named Duane Tresnich who lives in Kelowna, B.C., while doing my research for this trip. Duane had lived in Somaliland, in Boorama, for three months with his friend Said. He wanted me to deliver this letter for him. I had wanted to do it for Duane, simply because I would have a better excuse to enter Somaliland, and also a contact inside of the country.



Ahmed was this guide's name, and he said he knew Said Jama – it may have been one of those guide things, and on the other hand maybe he does know him – I am not sure at this point. But we finished our meal and went to the office to phone Said. There was no answer – the phone was down, or something. No one will ever give a white man a straight answer in Africa. However, this was only a small setback, as he took me down one of Djibouti's mud-holes called backstreets to a house's backyard; and theere on the floor were two Somali men wearing their traditional dresses, chewing their drug Qat, operating two short-wave radios.

I listened as the bantered back and forth in somali, looking for Said Jama of Boorama over their radio. They let out cries of success as they reached his brother, or someone's brother – everyone seems to be family around here. There is either a communal spirit here, or he speaks bad english and french, or he's a liar. It could easily be either of the three.

Soon, we were in a truck heading for the border, and hopefully onward to Boorama. The Asphalt dwindled to dirt road somewhere on the city's edge, and soon we were following dirt tracks east into the desert. The dirt and rocks, hot black and red, gave the landscape an otherworldly atmosphere. Clear sky filled the upper horizon, along with gnarled palm trees, short bushes, and the occasional wild camel.











About an hour later we were at the border – a small, pathetic looking town in the middle of the desert, with far too many pieces of rusting destroyed cars dotting the landscape. He walked with me through customs, along the sandy path. I was stamped out. And then I entered Somaliland.

The sign says it, the licence plates say it, the money all says Somaliland. But some disagree and call it Somalia – there is a peace conference in Djibouti right now involving all of the Somali representatives, and because of the peace talks, strangely, it has become difficult to enter the country, by any means, as I found out. Also, you will find no atlas that shows this country. We walked up to the brick office, the men took my passport and threw it in a drawer in their desk, and told me to sit outside while they waited for authorization from Boorama to let me in.

There was one other white man at the crossing, wearing the Somali sort-of-kilt: a big German man, working for a de-mining company. He had a badge on his shirt held on by a safety pin. He offered to take me with him to Boorama, in his big lorry. I declined, mostly because I knew the land rover would be faster and also because I wasn't sure if I would get in. "I agree, the lorrie is slow," he said. A dozen minutes later he was gone.

The sun began to set on us as I eagerly awaited news of Authorization; by 6:30pm none had arrived. I was drinking camel's milk tea with a few Somalis about one hundred metres inside the Somali frontier – the town of Lawya'ado, not to be confused with Loyada, the Djibouti town on the other side of the border. These people are friendly and worthy of trust. Ahmed was busy talking people up trying to arrange my transport to Boorama and accelerate my authorization through monetary means. –My- monetary means, of course.

Twilight came and we wandered back to the Djibouti border post, walking west along the shores of the Gulf of Aden; the post had closed, but he knew the men. I was stamped back into Djibouti. Thank the powers that be that I chose to get a multiple entry visa for this trip.

Evening settled in comfortably and we were left standing in the moonlight, a crowd of us, negotiating for a ride from the border back into Djibouti. The scene was dreamlike: hot and humid like you're nestled between your bedsheets, faces and words you can only sort of make out under a clear yet dark moon, and the lights of Djibouti City glowing behind the desert shrubs.

Arabian music jostled us as we made our way back to Djibouti City, and then through a market. The garbage, the gnarled people, the dilapidated Arabian and French buildings, the crowds of women draped in intricately woven fabrics, and the televisions blasting politics in the restaurants – this is medieval and distinct. This is Arabian Africa.

Ahmed told me that he would call Said from Djibouti, and arrange for him to authorize entry. He wuld also arrange a direct Land Rover from Djibouti to Boorama. I await the conclusion to these things as I write this. Actually, he just called me, Ahmed that is, and said that he talked to Said, and I have authorization. Good! At least, I hope that's what he said – his english isn't perfect. And he speaks French too fast – something that seems common in this city.

We shall see tomorrow if I get to Boorama – I should. And we shall see what my friend wants for his services. He has bought me a few meals, but more importantly, his help has been enormous. He mentioned 100 dollars in passing this evening – which actually is not bad, given that this is Djibouti, a ridiculously expensive city for its location in the midst of some of this planet's most explicit poverty. And, I would have never found a way into Somaliland without him. He'll be worth that much – if, if I get in.





Djibouti, Entering Somaliland, Take 2

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