Leaving Berbera - Feb 2000

Approaching the airport in Berbera is surreal. There are tanks everywhere – Russian T-72’s or perhaps their knock-offs - a military junk yard scattered in the sand. The long Soviet built airstrip (long enough to have been designated as an alternative landing site for the Space Shuttle until the chaos 1991) was a major pawn in the Cold War game and its rusting defense mechanisms attest to the importance it once had. The airport itself looks like an old bombed out factory. There is one large room the size of half a football field with a roof intact, and in one corner there is a counter of sorts where Raghe takes care of the formalities: buying the tickets at a negotiated price (in cash, dollars), getting our boarding passes (a slip of paper with a number hand written – I am number 7), and getting our passports stamped (the stamp is a triangle within circle with “Allah Akbar” written in Arabic over “Berbera Air Port”, and “exit” between the sides if the triangle and the edge of the circle in English, Somali and Arabic, date stamped over at an odd angle, messing up the nice balance of the design.)

Near the counter there are a few crates aligned into a small shop. There seem to be two things for sale: cans of coke, and reading glasses in silver and gold tubes with a clip to hold them in a shirt pocket. They are all +3.00. The price of everything is $1. Fortunately there is are several men squatting behind charcoal braziers producing steaming coffee and tea, sweet and with condensed milk, served in plastic cups. There are five of us and we all have a hot drink and the vendor takes the going rate for then all.

The plane arrives on time almost to the minute, and pulls to a halt only a few meters from the “terminal”. There are about 20 passengers, and we all take our bags to the plane and hand them directly to the hands stretching down from the hold - not much chance of lost baggage. We don’t have more than on light bag each, but there are boxes and boxes of commercial goods being hefted aboard – business in Somalia is business, regardless of the state of the state. Berbera is directly across the Gulf of Aden, Yeman, and it seems that part of the payment for the goats and camels destined for Saudi Arabia that are Somaliland’s exports is in goods destined for the former Italian colony.

We climb aboard and take seats anywhere, but are soon asked by the co-pilot (Russian) to move to fill all the front seats, and the back half of the plane becomes additional cargo space. In a surprisingly shot time the doors are pulled shut and the four turbo props turn and catch, inside left, inside right outside left, outside right. The blades have an odd curvature, like sets of whirling scimitars, and he engines are very loud. We rumble to the runway and without the slightest hesitation accelerate to full throttle. There is a strong smell of kerosene, and the thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump of the wheels passing the joints in the cement is not only loud but palpable. Though the pilot seems in no hurry to be airborne, he eventually noses upwards, and we arc out over the water to bank East and South and on to Mogadischu.