Hargeisa: a capital in search of a country

by Sean McLachlan on

For a people without an official nation, Somalilanders sure love their flag.

It’s everywhere–painted on doors, flying from government buildings and private homes, hanging from rear view mirrors, worn on belt buckles and even knitted into a cap like this barber is wearing in the photo. Somalilanders are proud of their nation and want everyone to know it.

After sleeping off a grueling ten-hour bus ride to get to the capital Hargeisa, I wake up and see at least a dozen flags from my hotel window. I’m eager to start exploring. I don’t know what to expect. Somalilanders say the capital is safe, but can an unrecognized government next to one of the world’s worst war zones really keep the peace?

My contact in Harar, Muhammed Dake, had assured me, “Hargeisa is safe. Just watch out for two things. Foreigners are offered prostitutes and alcohol. Both are illegal.”

I can handle that. I’ve never paid for sex in my life and if I can’t go without booze for a week, I should go without it forever.

I’m staying at the Oriental Hotel, the country’s oldest, having been built in 1953 when this was still the colony of British Somaliland. After two months in the Horn of Africa it is by far the nicest place I’ve stayed in–clean sheets, good service, new facilities, and water and electricity that never go off. Even before making it into the street I can see the government and investors are getting at least some things right.

The Oriental Hotel is in the center of town next to a large mosque, rows of low concrete buildings housing shops and apartments, and the gold market. It’s here, in the first half hour of my first day, that I get a lesson about the kind of country the Somalilanders have built.

%Gallery-92887%First stop is the money changer, who sits on the ground with a pile of bank notes around him. The Somaliland shilling isn’t internationally recognized, so it fluctuates constantly and hard currency is in big demand. “Hard currency” even includes Ethiopian birr, the currency of their biggest trading partner. You can use it as cash just about anywhere, and every shopkeeper knows the day’s exchange rate. One U.S. dollar is worth about 6,800 shillings, but since the government hasn’t printed notes above 500, any trip to the money changer gives you a gangster-style wad of cash. These exchanges happen in the open without any sign of worry. The money changers do keep the hard currency in their pocket, though.

At the gold market, mesh wire boxes the size of small tables sit by the side of the street displaying chains, rings, and earrings. Most of these “shops” are run by women in niqab, a full face veil made of black cloth. The niqab has become increasingly common in Somaliland and the Muslim parts of Ethiopia in recent years. Gold is handled freely and in the open, despite there being no police around. At one point I see a gold seller showing a tray of earrings to a customer. The customer walks away without buying anything and the jeweler goes off to talk to someone else, leaving the tray on top of her box. I stand a few meters away, watching and wondering what would happen. Will someone run up and grab it? Will another merchant chase down the dealer and tell her to put away her gold? Or will they put it away for her?

What actually happens is what I least expect–nothing. Nobody touches it, and after five minutes the jeweler finally comes back and calmly puts away the earrings.

When I ask Muhammed Dake about this later he shrugs and says, “Nobody steals in the market. It would mean a bullet, and that would mean civil war.”

In Somaliland, even the thieves appreciate stability.

Everyone knows what it could be like. Somaliland became independent in 1960 and a few days later joined Somalia. It was a fatal mistake. Soon the brutal dictator Siad Barre was in power and the Somalilanders tried to break away. Barre’s air force leveled Hargeisa, killing thousands. Somalia disintegrated into dozens of warring factions and Barre’s regime eventually fell. Only Somaliland was able to create a nation. The rest of former Somalia is a living hell of constant warfare. A steady stream of refugees flees to Somaliland looking for a better life.

Hargeisa is a new city, having risen literally out of the ashes of the old one. Every now and then you spot evidence of the past in a heap of rubble or pockmark shrapnel scars on a concrete wall. Most buildings are new and the sound of countless hammers counterpoints with the muezzin’s call over the city.

This place is a traveler’s dream. There’s nothing to see–no museums, no art galleries, virtually no monuments, there are only the people. Ancient ruins and fine art are great, but in any country it’s the people who teach you the most.

In Somaliland a foreigner will have no trouble meeting the locals. In a week I see only half a dozen other Westerners, even the Chinese engineers ubiquitous in the rest of Africa are absent, so I’m a curiosity wherever I go. I cannot walk down Hargeisa’s dusty streets for more than two minutes without someone starting a conversation. If I stop for any length of time a crowd gathers. At times I even block traffic. When I tell them I’m writing about Somaliland the inevitable answer is, “Thank you,” followed by,

“See how safe it is here, don’t forget to tell them that,” or,

“It’s not like the rest of Somalia. Why don’t people understand?” or,

“We need recognition. Then we can get more investment.”

Recognition is on everyone’s mind. Recognition would provide foreign investors, international aid, and dignity. Somaliland doesn’t even have a postal system because the Universal Postal Union won’t recognize it as a nation. Everyone uses private couriers like DHL or the reliable broadband Internet available in most cities. And while the Somali diaspora invests millions in the country, international recognition would bring in international organizations and specialists to help with building infrastructure, dealing with refugees, and tackling poverty. Somaliland has only a fraction of the NGOs that Ethiopia has, and few foreign companies. Yet this region of former Somalia has built up a stable nation with virtually no help from abroad. Meanwhile aid money pours into the chaos to the south, to no visible effect.

So as I wander in and out of shops selling the latest electronics, or through street markets filled with shoppers, or watch workers busy putting up yet another building, I ask myself, “What did these people do wrong? How isn’t this a country?” It’s like suddenly every court in the world decided my wife and I weren’t married, and my son is a bastard.

Who decides these things, and why?

Don’t miss the rest of my series on travel in Somaliland.

Next time: Hargeisa’s camel market!

Enjoy mountain biking and skiing at Whistler this weekend!

by Kraig Becker on

Outdoor enthusiasts are in for quite a treat this weekend as the Whistler Blackcomb Ski Resort, in Whistler, British Columbia, Canada, opens its mountain bike park for the summer season. As of Saturday, May 15th, sixteen trails and two skills centers will be open for riders, who can transition from their bikes to their skis, all in one very active afternoon.

With one of the longest ski seasons in North America, Whistler is a great destination for spring skiing. A number of the higher altitude ski runs remain open even as we approach mid-May. But at the lower elevations, the trail crews have been hard at work preparing the mountain bike trails for the first riders of the year. Reportedly, the trails are in excellent shape for the opening this weekend.

Some of the signature trails from the resort that will be available for riders include A-Line, Crank It Up, B-Line, Karate Monkey, Ninja Cougar, and Heart of Darkness, amongst others. Each of these trails is rated for the intermediate rider and higher, so beginners will have to wait a few more weeks for other trails to open. Riders can also hit the Air Dome for a little indoor action as well. The 8400 square foot training facility features foam pits and wooden ramps for a completely different kind of ride.

So, if you’re looking for a little outdoor adventure this weekend, take advantage of a rare opportunity to both mountain bike and ski on the same weekend. How about spending Saturday on the trail, then hitting the slopes on Sunday? Better hurry though, as that snow won’t last forever, and summer is closing in quickly.

Somaliland adventure: getting to nowhere

by Sean McLachlan on

One of the tempting things about travel in Ethiopia is the proximity to other nations offering a variety of different experiences. I decided that my two-month trip would include a side trip to Somaliland.

The first reaction most people have when I say I’ve been to Somaliland is, “You went to Somalia? Are you crazy?”

The answer is no on both counts. Somaliland is the other Somalia, the place that doesn’t get into the news because it’s at peace. Somaliland encompasses the northern third of former Somalia and declared independence in 1991. After a bloody war of independence it quietly settled down to create a nation in a region better known for its pirates, terrorists, and warlords. It’s east of Djibouti, northeast of Ethiopia, and west of Puntland, another breakaway region.

Somaliland isn’t recognized by the rest of the world. Other nations insist the Transitional Federal Government in Mogadishu is the legitimate government of all Somalia, despite it only controlling the airport and half the capital. Somaliland is officially nowhere.

Luckily for me, Nowhere has an efficient office in the Ethiopian capital Addis Ababa that issues visas. Actually getting into Somaliland is less straightforward. There are daily flights to the capital Hargeisa from Addis and other regional cities, but I prefer overland travel because it’s cheaper and allows you to see the countryside. I’d spoken with various Somaliland officials as to the advisability of this choice. Some said the overland route wasn’t safe for foreigners, while others insisted it was. I decided to visit Harar in eastern Ethiopia and check for myself.

Harar is a small city and within the first day I’d heard from three different people that the man to talk to was Muhammed Dake, a Somali-Ethiopian author and guide who has many connections on both sides of the border. I found him to be a font of information. His English is good and he can be contacted at guleidhr(at)yahoo(dot)com. Please note he’s very busy and can only answer serious inquiries about travel to Somaliland. As luck would have it, his cousin and a friend were headed back home to Hargeisa on the bus and agreed to take me along. Both were jalabis, women who wore the traditional Muslim garb of the region that covers everything but the face and hands. Traveling with them was bound to get me even more attention than usual.

“Don’t worry,” Dake said. “They’ll say you’re a convert to Islam and that they’re your wives.”

%Gallery-92636%My “wives” don’t speak much English, but as we head to the bus station one manages to tell me she used to live in Mogadishu before fleeing to Hargeisa and how grateful she is to live in a place where there’s no gunfire in the streets.

The first leg of the journey is a bus from Harar east to Jijiga, capital of the Somali province of Ethiopia. People are jammed in the rickety seats–old men and workers, women in jilabas, hordes of children and infants. A leper shoulders his way through the crowd begging for alms. We’re packed in with our luggage because the roof is covered with kegs of beer. The bus descends through a winding mountain pass dotted with villages. My attention is divided between the landscape and a poster taped to the partition behind our driver. It shows a Western model posed like a Hellenic statue, a perfect ruby of a nipple leading us on to Jijiga.

After a couple of hours we pull into Jijiga’s bus station–a clamorous, dusty, crowded place thick with flies. My traveling companions decide it’s a good place to have lunch. They take me to a stall made of a latticework of eucalyptus poles covered in plastic sheeting and cardboard. The only thing on the menu is spaghetti that we eat with our hands.

I quickly make a fool of myself. Since in this region you can only eat with one hand (the other being reserved for the final stage of the digestive process) there is no way to get all those unruly strands of pasta together long enough to make the trip to your mouth. Of course the four-year-old boy next to me is doing it just fine. He gives me a wide-eyed stare.

After amusing everyone with my bad table manners we squish ourselves into a minibus and head to the border. Soon the low concrete buildings of Jijiga disappear behind us and the road descends through rockier and drier terrain. We pass through a valley filled with boulders and eerie spires that loom over the road. Soon it flattens out and we’re speeding along a dry, featureless plain of stone and scrub. The beehive-shaped huts of wood and thatch so common throughout Ethiopia are replaced by low domes of wickerwork covered in tarpaulins, rags, and plastic. Lines of camels walk sedately along the road.

Tog Wuchale, straddling the Ethiopia-Somaliland border, has the distinction of being the second ugliest town I have ever seen. It’s a huddle of concrete buildings, shacks, and tents in the middle of a dusty plain strewn with garbage. Flies swarm over masses of rotting food. Every thorn bush is draped in plastic bags. There doesn’t seem to be a trash can in the entire province. This is what happens when a nomadic people are suddenly thrust into consumer culture. Before, a family might have occasionally thrown something away, a worn-out basket perhaps, but it would soon disintegrate. Nothing ever accumulated because the people themselves were always moving. Now they’ve settled and joined The Age of Plastic.

As soon as we’re off the bus, a “customs agent” tries to shake me down for money. My travel companions fling a few choice Somali words at him and he slinks away. Anyone who thinks Muslim women can’t stand up for themselves has never been to a Muslim country. They hire a porter with a bright yellow wheelbarrow to take their suitcases across the border and we pick our way through heaps of garbage past a sad trickle of a river choked with trash that oozes through the center of town. My poor boots. I pity the ladies in their sandals.

As we approach the border another guy comes up saying he’s a customs agent and asks to see my passport. Of course I blow him off. I mean, he has no ID, not even a uniform! But he speaks good English and is persistent.

“Where’s your uniform?” I ask. He looks confused.

We arrive at the Ethiopian side of the border, marked only by a tent in front of which two soldiers sit chewing chat, a narcotic leaf, their AK-47s resting on their laps. I try to hand them my passport but they point to the fellow who’s been following me.

“I told you I was a customs agent,” he grumbles as he stamps my passport.

A quick inspection on the other side of the border and I get my Somaliland stamp. I am now officially nowhere.

Now it’s time to get somewhere. My companions, who like all the other Somalis didn’t get checked on either side of the border, find a shared taxi. It’s a beat up old station wagon with a slow leak in two tires. The driver is a bleary-eyed maniac with chat leaves sticking out of his mouth. He’s also a sadist. He stuffs ten adult passengers, one infant, and an immense pile of luggage inside. One guy straddles the gear shift. I’m squashed between the door and my friend from Mogadishu.

Mr. Chat slams on the gas and we peel out into the desert. The only road is a groove of tire tracks over sand and pebbles. We weave between bushes and dodge the occasional camel. The view out the front window looks like some low-budget video game. I’m not afraid. Even if we hit something, the door and my “wife” have me jammed into place better than any seat belt. We head into the dusk as the broken window funnels a spray of fine sand into my face.

After a while we mercifully come to a newly paved road and speed on, halted only by regular checkpoints. My passport is scrutinized at every one. While I’m sorely tempted to use these breaks to get out and stretch my legs–they haven’t moved for hours and my knees get slammed by the driver’s seat every time we hit a bump–everyone warns me not to get out of the car. At this point my left leg is getting excruciating cramps, and for the last half hour into Hargeisa I stand up with my back pressed against the roof.

Entering Hargeisa at night the first thing I notice is that all the lights are on. In Harar I endured daily blackouts. Neon signs flash ads for expensive imports. People sit at cafes. Shoppers stroll along the street. We pull up in front of the Oriental Hotel and I thank my companions. I limp inside to discover I’m in a posh hotel.

Nowhere has a First World capital.

Coming up next: Hargeisa, a capital in search of a country.

Global Action Atlas connects people with causes the world over

by Kraig Becker on

The stated mission for National Geographic is “to inspire people to care about the planet” which is greatly exemplified in a new project that looks to connect people with causes from around the world.

This new project is called the Global Action Atlas, and while it is still listed as being in beta, it is very easy to see the potential to do great things. The site is essentially a database of local cause-related projects from around the planet, with information on how concerned global citizens can get involved on some level, ranging from simply donating funds to volunteering to help in person. Likewise, by being listed in the Atlas, those causes have the ability to reach out to a wider audience that might never have known it existed, garnering support from new sources.

Some of the causes that are currently featured on the Action Atlas front page include rallying support to protect wetlands from the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, working to make Washington DC schools to be more energy efficient, and saving elephants in Mali. Geographically, the opportunities to get involved stretch across North and South America, Africa, Asia, and into Oceania, with projects that are diverse and rewarding on a variety of levels.

At the heart of the Global Action Atlas is the Action Map, powered by Bing. The Action Map shows all of the projects in the database graphically laid out by location around the globe. With multiple zoom levels, you can zoom in on specific areas of the planet to more closely examine local projects in that region, and a handy search function lets you find projects based on keywords or location. Add in the ability to filter the projects by category, such as “conservation”, “exploration”, or “energy”, and you have a powerful tool for finding important causes to participate in.

Looking at the Action Map, I personally couldn’t help but be impressed with all of the great projects that are underway all over the world. There really are some amazing things being done to improve the lives of people or to protect the environment, and the Global Action Atlas allows us to get involved with those efforts no matter where we live.

Adventure travel insurance: a cautionary tale

by Kraig Becker on

Awhile back we posted a story on the importance of travel insurance for adventure travelers. In that article, we discussed the value of carrying travel insurance, which can safeguard someone from trip interruptions or even cancellations, and the loss of baggage that can result in very important, sometimes specialized, gear going MIA. But we also talked about how adventure travelers are often visiting remote places, which can be dangerous if they need emergency medical attention or have to be evacuated from that location. On a recent trip that I took to the Himalaya, I saw that scenario play out in a very real and potentially dangerous way, and I was reminded that it is not enough to just have purchased insurance, you also need to remember to bring the actual policy along with you as well.

A few weeks back I had the opportunity to go on a truly epic trip when I made the trek to Everest Base Camp. This is one of those journeys that is high on the “life list” for a lot of travelers, as you spend 2+ weeks hiking through the Himalaya, staying in rustic teahouses and soaking up the local mountain culture while surrounded by some of the most beautiful and dramatic scenery that you’ll find anywhere on the planet. It is a hiker’s dream come true in a lot of ways, but, as you can probably imagine, it is also a physically demanding experience that many would hardly classify as a “vacation”.

For my trek to Base Camp I signed on with a guide service in Nepal, and one of the prerequisites for joining the trek was that you had to have travel insurance to cover any potential medical needs that might arise. The policy was also suppose to cover an emergency evacuation should the need arise. I was cautioned before my arrival in Kathmandu that I would need to show proof of insurance when I joined the group, and anyone that couldn’t provide that proof would not be allowed to begin the trek. With that in mind, I purchased my insurance, which included special coverage for activities that were deemed dangerous, such as high altitude trekking, and printed off my policy to include with my various other travel documents.

True to their word, proof of insurance was requested in our initial meeting in Kathmandu. There were a dozen of us on the trip, and when we first gathered for that pre-trek meeting the night before we were to set out, our guide handed us a form to fill out. That form included a number of standard questions, including passport information, emergency contact person, and of course, the policy number and insurance company that we had purchased our insurance from. I dutifully filled out the form and handed it back in, not really thinking much about it afterward.

Fast forward a few days and we’ve all settled into the trek to one degree or another. Some members of the group are clearly more comfortable on the trail than others, and the level of suffering ranges from “barely breaking a sweat” to “dear God how much further?” By now, we know that there are a number of potential dangers on the trip, including fatigue, the dreaded “Khumbu Cough”, and other usual suspects such as contaminated water or food related issues that are the bane of any traveler’s existence the world over. But the most obvious danger was from the altitude, which was having an effect on all of us to one degree or another. For most, that meant shortness of breath or headaches. For others, it included loss of appetite or an inability to sleep. But for one of us, it was having a much more dangerous effect. One that could have proven life threatening.

One of the members of our group was a young lady who was traveling by herself, and had decided at the last minute to join the trek to Everest. She loved the thought of an adventure in the Himalaya, and had always dreamed of seeing Base Camp. Unfortunately, thanks to the effects of altitude, she would never reach that point.

The initial signs that something was wrong first appeared a couple of days into the trek. Whenever we would stop for an extended break from hiking, this young lady would invariably fall asleep. Whether we stopped for a short tea break or for an extended lunch, she would quickly nod off in her chair, and at the end of the day, when we’d reach our teahouse, she would be asleep within minutes. At first, these little naps were a point of good natured ribbing, but when they continued, a few of us began to worry.

After about five days on the trail we reached the village of Dingboche, which is located at about 14,468 feet. While there, our intrepid young lady’s altitude sickness became very serious. Her little cat naps turned into her not being able to stay awake at all, and when we spent an extra day there as part of our acclimatization process, she ended up in bed the whole day. When, our guide checked in on her late in the afternoon, he found that she was delirious, slurring her words, and cold barely identify her whereabouts. Soon there after, she became physically sick, and it was abundantly clear that she needed to be evacuated from the mountain, and quickly. Thank goodness we all had travel insurance! After all, it was required to be on the trek, right?

Turns out, it wasn’t really a hard and fast rule that it was required. It seems that while we were all filling out those forms back in Kathmandu, our now very sick young lady didn’t have her policy printed out, and wasn’t unable to complete the form. In her defense, she did try to access her policy via the Internet, but web access was spotty at best, in Kathmandu, and rolling blackouts, an all too common occurrence in that city, didn’t make that process any easier. As a result, she was allowed to go on the trek, even though she hadn’t filled out all the paperwork, and when she was truly in need of a helicopter evacuation, one couldn’t be called because she didn’t have her insurance paperwork in order.

Fortunately, the guides and porters of the Himalaya are an incredibly strong and hearty lot. Knowing that our girl’s life could very well be in danger, a group of porters put her on their backs, and physically carried her down the mountain to a hospital located in another village. Under the watchful eye of the doctors there, and after spending a night in a hypobaric chamber, she was feeling much better the next day. But the trek was over for her. She would descend to a lower altitude, and wait for the rest of us to eventually come down and join her.

The moral of the story is an obvious one of course. Make sure you have all of your travel papers in order before leaving the country, and if you purchased travel insurance, print it and bring it along as well. After all, it doesn’t do you any good to buy that policy, and then not have it readily available on the off chance that you’ll need it. That may seem like common sense, but it wasn’t obvious to that young lady on my trek, who was a very experienced traveler, and had spent time in dozens of countries all over the planet.