Author Topic: Aid work in Somalia - Camel Troughs and Health Posts by Paul Bradbury  (Read 6171 times)

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I was the biggest draw in town for years.

I tried to imagine it from their point of view and it must have looked really weird. Here they were, in a remote village in a desolate spot some three hours drive through the desert to the nearest tarmac road, scratching together an existence in this small community with its low-level stone cuboid houses in the middle, surrounded by huts made of rickety sticks and bags on the outskirts, a community where cars where rare and visitors(pastoral nomads excepted) even more so. It must have been bizarre for them to look up in the twilight hours from their cooking pots, to see a fat Englishman, complete with clipboard, floppy hat and followed by an armed guard, AK-47 at the ready, strolling nonchalantly through the main 'street'.

I only wanted to go for a walk, to escape the confines of the health post where we would be spending the night. I thought I might be able to slip out unnoticed and out of the village to take in the desert sunset, but there was no such luck. No sooner had I slipped through the gate (there was no danger here) and headed left out of the village, than I was pursued at a discreet distance by Ismail and his weapon.

It had been a long and frustrating day, trying to explain what for me were basic concepts to village elders who were barely literate. It certainly wasn't their fault, and I was once again thankful for the opportunity of a good education, but it was frustrating all the same. I headed up the hill, just to get away, with Ismail never far behind. To my left, a bleating goat, its legs tied together, so that it wouldn't stray too far. To my right, many earth mounds covered with stones. Somali graves. And in the distance, as I wondered back to the village, I could make out the approaching nomads with their thinning heads of cattle, wearily approaching the village in the relentless pursuit of pasture for their animals during this, the worst drought in many years.

It hasn't rained in this area for two years and water has to be tanked in and stored in huge sub-surface water tanks that resemble swimming pools. There were several of them surrounding the village. The following morning heads were raised expectantly towards the skies; the fierce sun was at bay by blackened clouds. Perhaps the chance of rain! And this a month before whatever seasonal rains were due! But the clouds soon passed and so did the hopeful mood. The sun was out and the reality returned that life was never going to be easy round here.

Spaghetti preparation in a drought
It had been a long 11-hour field trip and the only accommodation available was in the maternity ward in the health post that had been constructed by our project. I wasn't looking forward to it particularly, especially as we had to be on the road at 5.30 am the next day for another 13-hour trip across rough tracks in the desert. The village of Humbays doesn't cater for mass tourism, and the cocktail lounge in the Humbays Hilton may have been undergoing renovation, but the night was comfortable enough. The squat toilet was clean and there were fresh sheets on the maternity beds. Lights out came at about sunset and I drifted off into ten hours of uninterrupted sleep, but not before I sat alone on a giant stone and looked up at the night sky, admiring the millions of stars that lit up the night.

I wasn't overly looking forward to dinner, as food was almost as sparse as the water. Our hosts nonetheless rallied and produced a fine meal of spaghetti and potato sauce. I was given a separate plate with and a fork, the others got stuck into their communal trough with a combination of hands and mouths. Spaghetti. In this remotest of remote outposts, the Italian colonial legacy lives on (Puntland was Italian Somaliland until 1960).

Skins and hides production
I learned a valuable lesson in Somalia about excessive drinking, which is that, if you have a hangover, it is not a clever idea to assess a skins and hides production factory before breakfast. I would have had difficulty coping with the stench and the fresh skins at the best of times, but this was a hard start to what was going to be a very long day indeed. At least I had an extra hour in the dining room to get my head together, as my impressive personal authority was on display. I had told the staff to bring the car for 7.30 am sharp, so that we could get going. No problem, we'll be here. They rolled up at 8.30, full of plausible excuses, but I knew they had been chewing qat all night. There is no point even trying to come between a Somalia and his qat, you just have to work around it.

From the skins and hides, we proceeded to a bore hole rehabilitation project. I suddenly found myself inspecting camel watering troughs, the dozens of camels right behind me baying for water. I walked on and encountered Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, minus the good lady herself; a large hole in the ground revealed a team of singing Somali boys, each placed slightly lower than the one above, working as a team to pass the water up for the camels. They were using animal skins for the purpose, each containing about twenty litres. The sight of a strange Englishman did not disturb them unduly. I asked their ages and was told fourteen, although most looked no older than eight. And they worked around the clock.

Group 4 Security, Somali style
I was then taken to meet an elder of supreme importance. He rose slowly and deliberately, then fished inside his clothing to produce a pair of spectacles I suspect he did not need. More fishing and some flimsy documents in a polythene bag. It was an interesting collection. Letters of reference and thanks from the Americans in 1993 in Mogadishu, where he had worked as a gardener; a letter of employment as a guard in the British Embassy in 1982; and my favourite, a reference from his former employer, Group 4 Security in Mogadishu. Group 4 can't secure anything in the UK, never mind Mogadishu.

And that for me is one thing I miss over here - someone to share those humorous moments with. As we inspected another health post, constructed with money from the Netherlands, I was much amused by the painted sign, Funded by Dtuch Gout. The misspelling of Dutch notwithstanding, I was tickled by the thought over the taxes from overindulgent Cloggies financing such an escapade. I considered sharing the joke with Mohamed, but he was still talking about the problems of the draught, so I let it ride.

I have always hated mobile phones and only bought one under duress for the wine job I had before. Now I am blissfully uncontactable again. Unless I go out into the field. As I was bonding with the camels, a message came from HQ that my flight to Bosaso had been changed to 6.30 am the next morning. It was already afternoon and we were six hours drive away. Having reached home at eight, I had some meetings until late, later than the generator was willing to work, so it was to bed in darkness and then packing in darkness in the morning.

The only other time the radio has caught me was the day at the Humbays Hilton, when the cheerful tones of the Kenyan auditor, Wanjiru, came through loud and clear:

"Paul, when you go to Iskushuban, can you measure the cemented canal, over?"

"Please confirm, you want me to measure the canal, over?"

Silence.

Measuring canals is a new area for me. I had forgotten to pack my measuring tape in the overnight bag, in case such an eventuality might occur. But it can't be that difficult, surely? One sturdy stride is the equivalent of about a metre, so it should be easy.

There aren't many whites who have been to the valley near Iskushuban where the project is based. Quite what the locals make of us anyway is not known, but I hardly succeeded in enhancing our reputation in the eyes of the local farmers, who looked up from their crops to see a floppy-hatted Englishman striding in a determined fashion down the middle of their canal. My task would have been considerably easier had the canal been straight, not gone over a bridge and not been fenced off at numerous points. In order to overcome the latter, I was forced to climb steep rocks, ripping my trousers in the process. A spectacle that will long be remembered locally, I am sure.

Source: http://www.suite101.com/content/aid-work-in-somalia---camel-troughs-and-health-posts-a308641


In diagnosis think of the easy first.
Martin H. Fischer


 

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