I AM DREAMING that Jacqueline and I are on the Unicorn, anchored in a quiet cove in the Chesapeake Bay, when I’m awakened by a thunderous explosion.
I have no idea where I am, not sure whether I actually heard it or whether I just carried it out of my dream. Another explosion and the windows rattle. Andrew bolts upright on the edge of his cot. Thenoise is metalonmetal—thunk!—followed by a ground-shaking boom. I have never heard artillery but I think that’s what this is, and it takes a minute or two and another two rounds to determine the direction of fire. It is the general’s big guns nearby—outgoing. I wonder who the gun is shooting at—some clan trying to take the airport? The seaport? The town?
A muffled explosion rumbles in the distance. If they are firing from here, won’t there be incoming? There are three options in an artillery duel: outgoing, incoming, and bull’s-eye. Fucking hell! A big explosion. Not the clear-cut report of outgoing. This is a roar without definition that envelops everything, a sound I feel to my very core. The ground grumbles like an earthquake. A piece of glass from the broken window splinters to the floor.
I scramble under my bunk. My roommate remains on his.
“Andrew!”
He rolls under the bed as another explosion shakes the building. There comes a sudden silence. On my stomach, face pressed against the grimy floor and my hands clasped over my head, I turn toward Andrew. Our eyes meet but there is nothing to say. We remain under our bunks for the next few minutes, clawing out only when we hear the birds start to sing.
By the time we emerge from our cheerless sleeping quarters, Chet has already left for the Unicef compound. I radio Brian, who says he had been asleep and didn’t hear the exchange but, as of late last night, there were no reports of a new clan war or any unusual military activity. As far as he knows, the airport and the seaport remain in the hands of the Butcher of Hargeisa. But then, we will find out when we go to work. Andrew, who is normally cheerful and takes matters less seriously than I do, looks a little unsettled.
Over coffee, he manages a smile: “God, and it’s only our first week.”
Armed with my borrowed bag of tools and Andrew’s small, boxy high-frequency radio with which to talk to arriving aircraft, we drive to the office.
“War?” I ask Harun.
He turns back and grins. “No war, Captain. We have peace now.”
On the streets, there are no more gunmen than usual, no obvious signs of concern by the hundreds of Somalis going about their daily lives. There is no evidence of damage or even that shells landed anywhere near our compound, although the area is so pitted from what look like previous exchanges that I don’t suppose there would be much difference. There were three outgoing, two incoming. Perhaps General Morgan’s Majerteen soldiers were just practicing. And the Marehan on the other side of the Green Line were practicing back.
I am embarrassed by our procession down the crowded road where so few cars are ever seen. I wedge myself deeper between the guns. We could not be more conspicuous: white Land Rover with the big blue UN decals pasted on the sides, UN flags snapping from the fender, and Harun, leaning on his horn, driving like a man possessed, ignoring pedestrians, goats, donkeys, and cows, which, at most times, consider the deserted road as inviolate as a garden walkway at an old-age home. Considering the tensions of the day, such a display of bravura is the very last thing our foreign mission needs. I don’t think Harun wants trouble, but his driving sometimes reminds me of a show-off teen who just got his license. Does Harun even have a driver’s license? Unlikely. There is no authority to issue one.
We screech to a halt before a crowd of armed locals in front of the blue steel gate. The gate opens slowly and I catch my breath; there seem to be more Somalis inside than out. My first impression is that they have broken in, attacked the compound. Yet there is no violence and little sense of tension, just a crowd of locals milling around in the dust outside the conference room.
Brian, Jeri, and Chet sit at the head of a long table in the darkened chamber facing the sultan, General Morgan, clan and subclan elders, and various officers of militia groups. There is no electricity in the room for some reason, and the gloomy light from the few high windows and from the open doors underscores how very alone my colleagues are. Although I have my own challenges, I feel an affectionate compassion for them. It is evident by their expressions, somber and rigid, that they are getting another berating and that there is yet another crisis to defuse.
It is nearly as serious. Sierra Sierra says during the break that the BBC is reporting the Unicef killings on their Somali Language Service. In an interview translated into Somali, some Unicef official in Nairobi is rejecting charges of Unicef responsibility, even denying that they were our guards who pulled the triggers.
The BBC Somali Service has profound universal influence here, as widespread as the commerce of miraa or the distribution of bullets. Somalis, who have only had a written language since 1972, hold a strong oral tradition; they are said to be among the world’s best listeners. According to one Somali journalist, “If it has been broadcast by the BBC, that is the final proof that something is true.” The warlords, who had already received an admission of culpability from our people here in the field, are outraged and newly suspicious that our bosses are denying the UN’s role in the killings.
Chet is furious. The stress he is under is evident. “Christ, if he could only have kept his damn mouth shut. Or told them that we’re investigating the incident. Those guys behind the desks have no idea what they get us into—it’s not their nuts that are in the cracker.”
Brian and Jeri, ever under a constant barrage of charges and threats to our lives, have remarkable stamina. Their mission is not to put out fires or keep us from getting killed but to feed and house displaced refugees and help me get supplies to the flood victims on the lower Jubba. While the floodwaters rise daily and people flee for their lives, we in Kismayo, the center of operations, are daily under siege. There must be a better way. Not involved in the meeting, I head off for the port.
* * *
The airfield has one sub-subclan and the seaport has another, both under the control of General Morgan. Andrew—Alpha Kilo—is worried that the spasmodic violence and threats of violence at the airport will one day suddenly get out of hand.
“I’ll shut down the airport,” he warns. But it is not a serious thought. The controlling subclan of the day that rakes in the money from the UN mission won’t permit it. And the qat plane must come in.
The combatants of one subclan know the combatants of the other, and they are often related and all are ready to kill one another. It is, I suppose, like any grouping, like football teams, perhaps, the Patriots on one side and the 49ers on the other—all know one another personally, but on the field of combat, à nous deux! Some of the players are motivated, others are not; some have discipline and others do not. So it is with these various subclan militia, the irregular armed forces, teams of boys with high-powered guns. Some are easier to control and are less trigger-happy and are more responsible. At the seaport, I think I have the home team. I’ve got the players who do their job protecting me from the other armed players.
It may be that the port is a little more secure because there is an international on the wharf, sweating, pushing, lifting, physically working with them. And joking and trying to learn their language.
Andrew, unfortunately, spends most of his time in the tower. Burdened with changing flight schedules, loading and unloading, cargo manifests, impatient pilots, he admits he has little time to commune with the locals. Or to make a fool of himself.
At the port, I wear a baseball cap and torn cutoff jeans above my work boots, pack a radio on one side of my belt and a utility knife on the other. Maybe I look like some western gunslinger. Or a telephone repairman. My white-blond hair comes down to my shoulders. They make fun of my long hair and guffaw when I make like putting it in a ponytail. It is obvious to them that I’m not young. Those who speak Swahili call me “Mzee,” an honorific used for a respected village elder. At my age I don’t mind a title now and then.
I’ve begun teaching the men, many of whom hold themselves stiff and unsmiling, how to high-five, the unique hand slap that ends with a little boogie, a little shake of the hips. I use this silly American gavotte to break the ice, to get them to laugh with me, at me, a communication, a relationship. It seems to work, and they laugh freely as this slightly wizened fifty-year-old gyrates his moneymaker.
One port guard sits back on his haunches in the shade of the warehouse, leaning onto the barrel of his Kalashnikov. I see him observe me darkly under the brim of an old floppy hat made of plaited palm fronds. Rangy, thin, finely muscled, he has a chiseled face, creased deeply, sharp nose, deep eyes. He wears a clean but frayed red-and-blue-checkered shirt, threadbare brown trousers, and plastic flip-flops. His skin is jet-black but he is not Bantu; he wears his Somali heritage proudly. I am compelled by that expressionless yet distinctive face. He appears fierce and unyielding, yet I sense something inside those corvine eyes, an intelligence, a sensitivity. I smile at him and get nothing in return. Yet I am certain there is a personality in there—somewhere.
I struggle with the large steel warehouse doors and he rises to help.
“Maha samid,” I say. Thank you.
“Isa,” he says, tapping his chest with his fingers.
“Isa.” I take a chance. “Isa,” I say in simple English, “I teach. Give me five! Here—your hand.”
He shies away as if I were a spitting cobra.
I offer my upturned hand, reach for his hand, and slap it. I give him my hand and have him slap it. I instruct him to raise his hand in the air and I slap it. He is quick to learn, and on the second go we raise both our hands in high-five and slap them together and gyrate. “Yeah!”
That is, I gyrate. Chin thrust forward, he watches suspiciously as I give a little shake of my booty. Eyes widened in dismay, he looks at me as if I’m crazy, maybe even dangerous. Or worse, insulting. There is no humor in those sunken eyes. His countrymen are laughing so hard they are nearly doubled over. I want them to stop. What a stupid egotistical thing I’ve done. I always go too far. The man turns, picks up his gun that he had set against the wall. He glares ominously at the men and they fall silent. Then he glares at me. Suddenly he breaks out in a wide toothy grin, shakes his head at this crazy gal—white man—and walks away.
I’m nearly pissing myself.
A short, swarthy Somali with a goatee and a rifle draped over his shoulder approaches me inside the warehouse while Joel and I are working on one of the outboards. I can tell he has some authority—his gun is bigger. He introduces himself as a colonel. His English is ragged but understandable.
“I see your keys, keys to boats.”
“Where are they?”
“In town. Some boys have them. You want?”
“Of course I want. They were stolen. Can you get them back?”
“In Somalia, always solution.” He grins.
I recognize the word. “What is the solution, Colonel?”
“The boys want thousand dollars for each key. I tell them no.” He shrugs. “But that is what they want.”
“A thousand dollars?”
“Ha ha!”
“Ha ha?”
“Ha ha!” He grins. Something is missing here.
I turn to Joel. “What is this guy, an improv comedian?”
“Ha ha means yes in Somali,” he says.
“Ha ha means yes? No shit.” I turn to the Somali. “NO ha ha. Tell them absolutely no ha ha.” I walk away. Screw him. I’ve already hot-wired one of the boats.
My handheld VHF crackles. Alpha Kilo is telling Bravo Delta that our Hercules in from Nairobi has just backed into the warehouse, wiping out parts of the metal roof and wall with its tail. “And there’s damage to the aircraft.”
“Oh, God.” I hear the despair in Brian’s voice. “How serious?”
“Well, it can’t take off. Part of its tail is missing. Might be days before it can get back into the air.”
So much for one escape plan.
Apparently this is on Brian’s mind as well. “We’ve got to get that aircraft operational, Alpha Kilo. Immediately!”
“The pilot says he is going to try to get a mechanic out from Nairobi to see if it can be put back together.”
“What do you think?”
“The Herc can take a beating, but me, I wouldn’t fly it.”
* * *
I am alone at the port now; Joel has left to catch his flight for the relative sanity of anywhere else—on a smaller single-engine cargo plane. I want to get one of the boats into the water and ask Ali to arrange a crane. Then comes the dreaded selection of longshoremen to slide the boat out of the warehouse to the pier’s edge. I know of no clan affiliation and so I select men randomly—those who I don’t think have worked before. I am very alert, very nervous, and I try not to show it. The pushing, shoving, chin-stroking is merely a threat today, more restrained possibly because they don’t know how far to push it. The crane on the edge of the pier slowly lowers the boat and finally, for the first time, it touches the water. I feel like breaking a bottle of champagne over its pointy little bow.
I have wired an old car-ignition switch to the boat’s electrical system. With some apprehension, I turn the key and she roars to life. The Somalis on the wharf above cheer, slap one another on the back in mutual congratulation. I grin and toss them a thumbs-up. I have an undeniable sense of fulfillment. It is not just that; I have hope.
After testing the controls, I toss the lines and ease the boat out into the bay to break in the engine. I am in my own world. I feel like a schoolboy exploring the neighborhood with a new bicycle. I motor toward a bombed-out patrol boat that lies awash in the middle of the harbor on a mudflat, its rusted hull streaked white with the guano of seabirds. Following the shoreline, I am careful to stay out of the shallows, where, according to Ali, wrecks by the dozens lie scattered just below the surface. On the back of the engine manual, I sketch rough contours and landmarks of the bay, recording coordinates of latitude and longitude of the harbor entrance from the GPS. I note the waypoints of locations on the beach that are accessible from the water and, I hope, from the road. I am flushed with success and accomplishment.
At the evening briefing I am met with a communal gloom. But I have a boat in the water—working!
“That is great, Juliet Bravo,” Chet says. The news is greeted with dead eyes by the others.
“Well, I guess you will be able to get out,” Happy One says testily. I am surprised and a little hurt by her remark. I don’t know what I expected, but after days of repairing, rewiring, rebuilding, organizing, and ducking a few flying bullets and a little blood-letting, I suppose I expected something more than Jeri’s liverish grumbling. But I don’t take it personally: We are all wiped out from the heat, from the tensions, from the work that runs from dawn to eight o’clock in the evening, fourteen-plus hours of futility and fear.
Brian drones that we’ve contracted out installation of water pumps and some rain collectors in what remains of a local school. Andrew describes briefly the damage to the cargo plane. I have trouble keeping my eyes open. It is the same for the rest of these stressed-out nodding humanitarian mercenaries. These are not hardened veterans but mere fellow citizens who hope they will be able to get the job done and get out of here without getting killed. I think every one of these permanents is more surprised and frustrated than I that things are going so badly.
They are a strange lot. As I look across at them I can’t help but wonder who these people really are or why they are here. Are they married to the UN, to the adventure, the altruism, the money, the loneliness, the independence, the adrenaline? Each one possesses that vague, private air of a loner; each one, I have learned, is a virtual stranger to the others. They have so little in common, not even from the same countries. They find no succor even in that most essential bond from working for the same outfit. Each is a representative of a different agency—WFP, Unicef, UNDP, UNHCR—with different bosses, different instructions, different and sometimes competing methods. Jeri, an attractive woman, wearily sweeps the hair out of her eyes, and I wonder whether she has any kind of life on the Outside. Does she have a husband, a lover waiting for her return? I have not had the chance to ask, probably won’t get around to it before they send me upriver. Andrew, not a permanent, has his girl waiting for him, and I hope I have Jackie. But do any of these permanents who spend so much time in the field have a long-term relationship—families, lovers—waiting for them back home? How could they maintain any kind of a relationship? They, we, have so little in common with anyone not here. It is not unlike returning to the mainstream after crossing an ocean on a small boat; the eyes of friends glaze over when I try to tell them of my adventures, as do mine when they tell me of their day-to-day lives. How can you tell your partner about Somalia? A soldier goes to war, gets shot at, suffers the traumas of combat, goes home. Who is he going to talk to?
We are too exhausted to report in much detail our day’s activities. Happy One, however, seems to find some energy. Tomorrow she will try again to distribute food to the local Kismayo camps of twenty thousand flood victims. This will be the first delivery since the one a few days ago that resulted in the shootings. She is not optimistic:
“Every time we take food to the camps, the militia comes during the middle of the night and robs the refugees, and the next day the food we have distributed is sold openly in the markets in town. It just cannot go on like this. What are we doing here, for God’s sake?” she says, rubbing eyes sunken with fatigue. Happy One looks finished.
The difficulties are not unexpected. In 1992, nearly three thousand people, mostly the elderly, women, and children, were dying daily from starvation. Despite this human calamity, eighty percent of the emergency relief supplies were looted, which was one reason for UNOSOM military intervention.
Mohamed Sahnoun, UN special envoy to Somalia in 1992, wrote: “High-quality items such as sugar, rice, flour, cooking oil, while very much welcome, have many times caused unnecessary deaths and injury because, by and large, they invite looting and consequent fighting.” The port of Kismayo, he reported, “is so important for emergency relief in the south that any delay in ensuring security there is to be strongly denounced.” This vital seaport, through which most of the relief supplies for southern Somalia were delivered from the outside, “changed hands so many times and presented us with serious security problems.” Things haven’t changed much.
Cold showers, a change of clothes, and under the thatched roof of the HCR compound we try to unwind. Chet, our new compound mate, is nothing like his predecessor. Not a man of many words, not a man with a responsive smile, not a man who offers information easily. During our staff briefing, he gave the impression that if you worry about your safety, you don’t belong here. I wonder if he is going to forget that we are not his soldiers. Whatever the initial impression, he makes two instant friends when he puts a couple six-packs on the table.
Andrew’s account of the Hercules accident is a mirror to all our frustrations. Engines running, props pitched in reverse, the Herc was being directed back toward the warehouse by one of the crew who couldn’t see the top of the forty-foot tail in relation to the building.
“I was standing in front of the warehouse and I could see what was going to happen,” he says. “Once it starts backing, it is hard to stop. I ran in front of the plane, screaming like a bloody madman trying to get the pilot’s attention, but he was looking round at his engineer. And the engineer had no idea—he was looking at the wing, not at the tail. I should have realized what was going to happen.”
“They can fix these things?”
“Sure. I am not sure how, but yes, it can be done, so they tell me.”
The subclan leader, Andrew says, is demanding not just money for repair of the building but punitive damages from the UN as well. Yet another potential crisis.
I watch a bat swoop through the air, catching flying insects hovering around the one lamp on the walkway. I don’t smoke. Yet I feel the need of a cigarette. I realize that not one of the internationals smokes. I suppose I am grateful they don’t—I would start again and I would be a chimney by now.
Chet is saying that he and Brian drove to subclan headquarters on the Jubba earlier in the day to seek security guarantees that I don’t become a target of the warring clans shooting across the river at each other. “But it looks like you will have to wait a few days,” he says. I accept this news gratefully—I am getting less enthusiastic about the mission with the passage of each hour. It’s not that the flooded areas are far distant. Kismayo is eighteen miles down the coast from the mouth of the delta. The Jubba curves back toward Kismayo, and the stranded, the hungry, the homeless, the dying are only a few miles away—not more than twenty minutes by truck. They might as well be on the far side of the continent. The villages that are being swept away by the river are on the other side of the Green Line, the demarcation that separates General Morgan’s Majerteen subclan from the Somali Patriotic Movement forces of the Marehan subclan—historical family enemies. Both subclans are members of the Darood clan.
Upriver, only forty miles to the northwest on the other side of the Green Line, there are sections that are peaceful and secure and are currently served by Wolff’s river fleet without incident. The well-equipped Swedes and others are doing their jobs, presumably only worrying about crocodiles and hippos, not incoming artillery. I have yet to help anyone, make a delivery, rescue a fair Somali maiden, or whatever it is I’m supposed to do. A mission from God this is not.
Sierra Sierra says his trip up the road was—his word—difficult, an apparent understatement. General Morgan had guaranteed them safe road passage out of his territory across the Green Line to Goob Weyn, a village perched on the river cliffs overlooking the delta. It had been arranged, Morgan had said. Guaranteed. But someone didn’t get the message. At the so-called frontier, they were stopped by the Somali Patriotic Movement. The gunmen claimed the UN had aligned itself with General Morgan. They threatened to shoot them, and Chet says at one point he was convinced they would.
“They were discussing us in Somali. I couldn’t catch all of it but it appears our neutrality is compromised—when we accepted Morgan’s protection here in town, they think we threw our lot in with him. It is going to take some fast footwork to persuade them otherwise. We were pretty lucky to get out of there. Our driver said that they were planning to kidnap us when we crossed to the other side of the line.”
“Were they serious?”
“Well, son, they sure in hell were not arguing about a bingo card. Our driver translated for us later: ‘If we don’t take them now, it will be too late. It is the one chance we have.’”