Desperately early in the morning we took off from Addis Ababa to Dire Dawa. The flight was not full, as I had anticipated. An old Fokker 50, we were served a cheese sandwich and cake with coke by the old men dressed like pilots who would turn out to be the flight attendants. Well, the meals were better than nothing I suppose.

Dire Dawa has a paved runway and a new terminal. We were asked to deplane while they fuelled; a curious middle aged british woman approached me. "Hi. Who are you working with?"
She was nearly flabbergasted to hear that I was a tourist. Out here, heading for Jijiga, the apparent aid coordination centre of Ethiopia.
Somaliland was my goal, and I had to get there, if only briefly, for this trip to be a success. She was with Christian Aid, and was overseeing some projects in the area.
Upon arrival in Jijiga: no paved runway. Two tin shacks. Many military men standing around. She offered to get me a lift into town with the people she was meeting.





Jijga the town is reasonably large for this part of the world; although camels wandering through the city centre are common, and much of the town is dirt road and shacks. The entire area was surprisingly green; "we have been getting rain for the past few weeks," one of the workers told me.

I was taken back to their office with the lady and three local workers – OWS, Ogaden Wilderness Society is the name of the aid group. I just might make a donation for all they did for me.
"Only a tourist," I said, as we sat, drinking soda water, chatting; them wondering what I was doing in Jijiga, and her sort of curious but very friendly. A very nice aid worker. At least some of them take their profession to heart.
I was assigned not one, but two locals to deal with my itinerary; to the immigration office and get stamped out, but only if I can get back in. And then find a bus to Boorama or Hargeisa. Whisked away in their spiffy Land Rover to the immigration office, I got to talking with one of the men. "This town is where all of the aid groups are centred," he said, "and also where the people come to get food."
"Is there enough for everyone?" I asked, expecting the usual African optimism.
"I don't know."
And I still wonder.

I was given an exit stamp at the immigration office; as he pressed the stamp hard against my passport page, I thought I could hear a metal door closing. He had better issue me a new visa when I come back Friday afternoon, or I'll have some real problems exiting the country. But really, what are they going to do when they find me? Deport me? Fine enough, I only want to leave anyway.

The bus to Boorama had left an hour ago; the only one of the day, which I found quite odd. We went back to the OWS office. "So, I guess you're in Jijiga for today?" one of the men asked.
"Well, perhaps. Let's wait and see if there is another way to get to Boorama or Hargeysa today," and the thought must have clicked in his head, because he suggested that I go to Hartishek, where it was easy to connect to Hargeysa. Before I knew it, I was in a tiny bus screaming across the muddy road to the halfway point between Jijiga and Hargeysa: Hartishek. Less than three hours later we arrived.

Rolling across green fields, it was easy to see that many nomads were going back out to the countryside with their herds and beginning life again. The desert here swallows rain fast and graciously; the plains around Jijiga are rolling green now, when only a few weeks ago they were fodder for the news - as endless tracts of dust.

Before Hartishek, still deep in Ethiopian territory, the bus passed through the first Somali roadblock. Of course, it does not actually block the road: it is merely two sticks on either side of the dirt road with a string hooked across. No one paid any attention to me. But I knew from the features of the people in the bus that I was far from Ethiopia already: these people are almost all Somali.

Hartishek is a refugee camp, and surrounded by mounds of garbage. In that garbage children play, and African vultures twice the size of those children scavenge. Thousands of plastic bags have been tied onto the whithered bushes; the dirt road turns into deep mud ruts, and crowds of women sit on the side clutching large tin cans bearing the E.U. symbol. The dirt, the dust, the garbage, and the multitudes of people in such a tiny, desperate town; thousands upon thousands of little white huts that look like bubbles across the rolling plains: Hartishek.

A small boy, the conductor for the bus I was on, led me to a newish Land Cruiser that was loading up for Hargeisa. I met an older African man there: white hair and beard, who spoke with honest sounding english and all-too-familiar looking in this region. A bit tired in the eyes. He said he was a refugee.

"I don't know why God created the black man," he confided in me, "all he does is suffer. And they are rude. How many African countries have you visited? Are there any of them without suffering?"
He was certainly pessimistic. Be he also offered the idea that I pay for all of the seats on the vehicle so it could go immediately.

Usually, I don't do this; and the price was high at about US$60. But I only have two days at the most to see Somaliland, and every minute counts at this point. Unfortunately. I have often said to myself that a little time in a place is far better than no time at all, and have had many great experiences this way. So with scant regard for budget I paid the high price – although for the simple fact that it was better security as I was about to enter what is essentially a rogue state, I think it was a smart move.

Another roadblock was not far from the town and a Somalian with an AK-47 slung behind his neck disappeared with my passport and driver into a shed. The old man was still in the Land Cruiser with me.
"Perhaps you need a translator," he said, "and I could translate for you."
I offered him fifty Birr to come with me. "But I will return immediately, and I need to buy the bus back."
"As you like," I said with a friendly smile. He quietly slipped out the back door and disappeared.
The Somalian came out of the shed and up to my window, one hand holding the end of his gun behind his neck, and grunted at me. He didn't make eye contact, but merely looked in the truck quickly to see if there was anything illegal or valuable he might want. And then, we were on our way.






Into Somaliland

Back