in the 1970s. It armed, trained, and gave development assistance. Somalia became very pro-Soviet, as so many other African countries did during that time.
The relationship with the United States was fucked. They suspended aid. Then the infighting began. The Somalis couldn’t seem to get away from the model Joe was on about, with everybody at everybody else’s throat. There was fighting between clans, between government troops and guerrilla movements, and between the whole country and neighbouring Ethiopia. The war spilt over into northern Kenya. Ineffective government and rampant corruption had put the tin lid on it.
By the late 1970s, the Soviet Union had binned Somalia as well. All of a sudden it had nothing, and people were starving. They had to come creeping back to the West for help. The government was completely fucked. After another round of infighting and civil wars the clans had taken over in 1991. No sooner had they done so than they started to fight each other. In that year alone, hundreds of thousands of Somalis had died. Violence, disease and famine were relentless enemies. Half the children under the age of five died. Forty-five per cent of the population did a runner into neighbouring countries. Of the remaining 55 per cent, a quarter were on the verge of starvation.
Then, in 1992, the USA had stepped in. Operation Restore Hope was where it all began. The infamous Black Hawk Down incident was where it ended. After that, the US withdrew completely and left the country with no hope at all. The clans carried on fighting each other, and I supposed they’d continue until no one was left.
The aircraft bounced across a stretch of dirty, rubber-stained concrete. The sea crashed against the rock defences to my right. Goats tried to pull berries off some scrub to my left.
The terminal was ahead, with the airport’s one pan immediately in front of it. It looked exactly as I was expecting — a low-level, two-storey Soviet-style concrete block. What I wasn’t expecting was for it to be in such good condition. The white paint and fields of glass gleamed out at me.
Joe had been waiting for my reaction. ‘I know, man — great, isn’t it? Until last year it was like the rest of the city. But the UN paid for the place to function.’
A banner below the control tower read:
I knew SKA. They were based in Dubai, and also had the contract to try and make Baghdad and Kabul airports function too. I liked the understatement of their message. It was a bit more subtle than
I could make out more of the runway once we’d turned and faced back along it. What I’d thought were rocks protecting the edge nearest the sea turned out to be concrete that was crumbling into it. Maybe that would be the next phase of the build.
We taxied closer to the terminal. A ropy-looking Russian airliner stood on the pan. A mass of people huddled with loads of luggage in the shade of the wing. I didn’t know if they were getting on or getting off.
Beyond them was an old military hangar. The metal sheeting had been ripped off. The frame was rusty. Inside was an equally rusted-up MiG fighter from the 1960s with a big circular intake at the front. It had probably fought the Americans over the skies of Vietnam. Now it rested on blocks as if the wheels had been stolen.
The revs dropped and the prop slowed as we turned onto the pan. Joe looked around in disgust like it was the first time he’d been here. ‘See what you’re going into, man. This is the most dangerous city on earth.’
‘I know, mate.’
‘You sure you don’t want the AK? I’ll give you the fucking thing. You’ll be dead without it.’
I shook my head. ‘I’d be dead with it.’
The propeller did its last few revolutions and shuddered to a stop.
‘You definitely got my number, man?’
He’d given it to me on a card, made me put it in my iPhone, and even wanted me to hide it in a plastic capsule up my arse.
‘Yep, got it.’
‘This fucking shit-hole has nine fucking mobile networks. You can call from anywhere in this fucking country, man. Can you believe that? These flip-flops, they can’t stop fucking talking, man.’
He nodded at something behind me. ‘Good luck.’
I turned to see what he was looking at. Three technicals, two with 12.7mm heavy machine-guns mounted on the flatbeds, were heading our way.
‘I’ve got to pay these cunts three hundred fucking dollars just to land here. My tax to the clan.’ He pulled out a brown envelope and passed it to me. ‘You give it to the bastards. I hate talking to them. Hopefully see you soon, man. Just remember, don’t piss off the flip-flops.’
3
There were six or seven bodies on the back of each wagon, their legs dangling over the sides. A couple of them stood up, manning the machine-guns. The equivalent of our.50 Browning, they could penetrate light armour or the engine block of a truck and punch a hole the size of a man’s head in a wall at a thousand metres.
These things were the stock weapon for Africa, South East Asia, Iraq and Afghanistan. The Russians started building them in the 1930s to take Vickers’ machine-gun ammo. We’d donated millions of rounds to them during the Second World War to hammer the Germans. They’d carried on making them until the 1980s. Some donations you live to regret.
The sun burnt through my long-sleeved T-shirt and roasted the back of my neck. The Cessna’s engine exhaust turned the oven up a few more degrees, as well as filling my nostrils with the stench of Jet A1.
I retrieved my day sack. There was nothing in it but a toothbrush, a solar Power Monkey I’d bought in Millets, and a plug-in mobile charger. All I had on me was my passport and two thousand dollars in fifties, my goodwill and escape money. I’d taken to wearing my passport and cash like an American tourist in Mexico, in a waterproof pouch around my neck. It made sense. I could always feel it, and never had to worry if my sweat was going to make it soggy.
Joe was still worried. He leant over and shouted, ‘You sure you don’t want an AK, man?’
I shook my head.
‘I’ll be standing by for your call. But, fella, be quick making that deal if you want to stay breathing.’ He pointed down at the weapon. ‘Last chance …’
This time I just raised an eyebrow.
‘Fucking crazy, man. Good luck!’
I closed the Cargomaster door and he taxied away towards the fuel truck. The driver was beckoning him urgently, like a shopkeeper in a souk — as if Joe had anywhere else to fill up.
Now the smell of engine fuel had gone, another took its place: the sulphurous odour of rotting garbage and burnt rubber. Combined with the heat, it was so minging I could almost taste it.
The technicals were black or maybe blue. It was hard to see under the layers of rust and dust. Arabic music moaned and shrieked out of the two wagons packing the 12.7s.
Most of the heads bobbing around in the back were swathed in multicoloured headscarves, LA-gang style. Some of the legs hanging over the sides were jeaned, some trousered. Others were just bare, with white-chapped knees and scabs. The footwear ranged from trainers to plastic shoes and flip-flops. A mixture of T-shirts, football shirts and charity hand-outs from the disco era completed the cutting-edge Mogadishu look. Some wore canvas chest harnesses over their AC Milan or Newcastle colours; others had just shoved a spare mag into a shirt pocket. Backpacks bristled with RPG rounds.
These lads seemed keener to give each other a hard time than to give me one. There was lots of tooth- sucking and flashing eyes. It took me straight back to my own schoolyard — on the days I bothered to turn up. They weren’t happy memories. I used to ask Sharon King out at least twice a week. But I didn’t stand a chance. I was white and a minger.
Back in the real world there were two items that they all had in common. The first was an AK. You name the variation and the style, they had it. The second was a pair of outrageous sunglasses. Mirrored, star-shaped, wraparound or John Lennon, China’s rejects had found a home here. Elton John and Edna Everage would have been
