Ahmed talks so fast in any language – be it Somali, broken english or broken french, he's difficult to understand. "Give me one hundred dollars," he said, "and I will get you authorization. Africa is like this, you see?"
"Yes, I know."
I'm new to this bribing stuff – and a hundred bucks seems like a lot, for a tremendously valueless country that doesn't exist like Somaliland, but if I want to get in then I'll probably have to rely on Ahmed's plan. Which is probably to keep ninety of it and slip ten to the border guys and see what happens. But as I said, if I get in, then he'll have been worth it.
He called Said at the phone office and he was out; but I believe he knows I am coming. Ahmed said he would have a Land Rover come by the hotel; "good for security," he says. One o'clock is the appointed time. I'm just going to drift through sleep while scratchy Arabian music plays from the tape shop outside....







Loyada/Lawya'ado - Take 2

Ahmed has both been a blessing and a curse. He's helped me here to the border, and he's called Said – I think. And this part of Djibouti is really destitute, dusty, and filled with curious and friendly Somalis. As strange as it sounds, I am comfortable in places like this : dirt streets with giant pools of black mud, clouds of black flies drifting through alleys and buildings, landing on everything; young children carrying jerry cans filled with drinking water, old men staring and smiling, everyone shouting. The women in their always bright clothes. Land Rovers being piled sky-high for the long journey to Boorama. The unforgiving sun blasting all possibilities of shadows in the midday away.









So again, this time to Loyada: we left at 3pm. Still too late in my opinion. It was the same as yesterday in that respect, although there were more camels wandering through the barren desert today. We walked across the frontier again. Another stamp. Another try.

Ahmed was arguing strongly with the Somalis in the little immigration hut; the situation was tense. This time, I was not allowed to leave the fenced off area to drink tea. Ahmed came and went several times – "no problems," was the only response I could get out of him. And after an hour of waiting, we were walking back toward the Djibouti border crossing.

"Said is crazy," Ahmed proclaimed in frustration, "he said he would give authorization, and did not. Why is he playing?"
I was speechless. However, the Somalis at the border were giving me good information, as I will attempt later. "Take the bus to Dire Dawa. Then to Jijiga. Then, it is simple to enter Boorama. No guards, no border crossing."
"I will do that then."

I don't know what Ahmed did with the 100USDollars I gave him – he came by my hotel with a new t-shirt for me and a bundle of fruits that looked like mangoes but weren't – the money was probably his fee, although he said he gave it all to the border guard trying to bribe him. I suppose his help, which despite failing, has been extensive, is worth the price in this pricey city.

So on Monday, another waste of a day – although the atmosphere of this city is incredible; I love the Arabian culture, and when you combine it with the African culture, you have something truly amazing. Despite the destitution, it's a fascinating place.

And tomorrow - one way or another, probably by plane - to Addis Ababa.



Djibouti - Day 4

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