Finding the Country that’s not on the Map

“No sir, that is not my passport number”, “No I don’t have any other passports, you must have made some mistake”

These were the first words I had the great fortune to speak to a Somaliland Official, uttered mid-morning at the tiny building that served as Hargeisa’s airport, arrival hall, customs, and immigration. We had done everything right, printed out the letter urging the government to waive the required exchange of our America dollars into the intensely devalued Somaliland currency, bringing with us our ticket stubs and the sheet of paper with all of our names printed on it that served as our official visa to enter the state-that-isn’t-a-state known as Somaliland. Of course doing everything right is no guarantee, and sure enough, my passport number and the one they had printed for me were completely  different, causing me some anxiety that I would be unable to enter the country…at least in any other country this might pose a problem, however, seeing that many other mistakes were present on our visa, not least the misspelling of the word “Republic” in the official title of the “Republic of Somaliland”, I thought I had a pretty good case for letting me in, and by golly, it had been too long of a flight to be turned back now!

My journey to the country that’s not on the map started off with a fairly typical though perhaps inauspicious delayed flight from Raleigh to New York’s JFK. I had planned to spend my 5 hour layover meeting up with my friend Mike Chen and relaxing in the airport, but instead had only time for a quick hello and the receiving of a gift of trail mix before I had to rush into the security line for my next flight to Moscow. Arriving in the gleaming (apparently brand new) Moscow airport, I immediately recognized how clean and soft the floors looked, and in following up on that intuition, lay down for a delightful 7 hour nap. Then it was time for our flight to Dubai, the Vegas of the Middle East, and a fitting juxtaposition to presage our arrival in one of the world’s newest and least developed countries. After checking in to our hotel, which appeared to double as a Chinese, Korean, and Pakistani brothel during the on-season, the other teachers and I had the chance to scout out some delicious Lebanese Shwarma at 3am before the sun rose and the iron curtain of fasting fell across the (outwardly) pious little Emirate. Awaking early, I had the distinct pleasure of taking Dubai’s brand new metro for a ride, an amazing piece of engineering that evoked the futuristic cities of science fiction, by which I was swiftly transported to the Tallest Building in the World, which proved too large to fit in one photograph, and too expensive to enter and rise to the top ($100 for a peek from its view). After a little more mall-centric site seeing, we met up with Kyle and Ayu, two former Abaarso Tech teachers, who for the next several hours fielded a constant barrage of questions from all of us information starved teachers, and valiantly stood their ground against this onslaught of curiosity.  After breaking our fast at a delicious Indian restaurant, we made our way to the airport, where we awaited the final two legs of our quest to enter the un-mapped nation across the sea.

Our Dallo (Djibouti)  Airlines flight, on an aircraft that appeared to be acquired from Spain, and was operated by a crew from Tajikistan, offered a number of peculiarities which bare relating. Among the expected group of Somali passengers, there was a large contingent of what appeared to be Pakistani Sheikhs, robed and bearded, who took every occasion to demonstrate their piety and defy the normal guidelines for airplane travel. As one took the loudspeaker to voice the call to prayer, several holed up in the small bathroom to purify themselves from head to foot, and as we approached an area of turbulence, though the pilot desperately flashed the seatbelt sign, all rose and knelt in the aisle to pray, much to the consternation of our anxious young flight attendant.

Arriving safely in the early morning, the departure/arrival room of the small Djibouti airport was brimming with camouflage, a large contingent of US Navy personnel evidently were making their long awaited escape back home. The look in their eyes said it all; they had no intention of welcoming us to the small, hellishly hot country they had just been toiling in, their focus was purely on McDonald's, Mom, and Apple Pie. Finally we were called out onto the runway and exactly according to our expectations, boarded a propeller place with no AC and seats that flopped around brokenly in the wind. This proved surprisingly comfortable (for me) and the combination of hot air and roaring propellers lulled me into a deep sleep, until 45 minutes later we touched down on the dirt runway of Hargeisa (Int'l) Airport, and experienced fresh breezes sent down from the hills to welcome us to the country beyond the cartographer’s reach.

Now no matter how fresh those breezes were, I was not going to wait around in that airport for the next bunch of frazzled deliveries to push their way into line, so I explained, as best I could, that the visa was “full of mistakes!” I may have said something to the effect of “you even got the name of your bloody country wrong! Of course you made a mistake with my passport number!” In any case I eventually prevailed, and breathing deeply with relief (though somewhat disturbed at the same time by the depth (or lack thereof) of screening), was able to rejoin my compatriots, claim my luggage (they actually checked the tags!) and make my way along the dusty road to where the Abaarso Tech bus awaited us.

Driving through the streets of Hargeisa, I’m not sure what I had expected, but the dissonance that I felt led me to believe that it had been something else. Hargeisa was unlike any other capital city I had ever seen. In many other economically deprived, underdeveloped countries, the rest of the country may suffer, but corrupt dictators pour all the resources at their disposal into making their capital’s appropriate flagships to their pride and arrogance. Here however, nary a building of any size, nor a thoroughfare of any particular pomp or care was to be found. As we passed through the heart of town, and no large stores nor sizable offices appeared, and as we drove by the Presidential Palace, a building that distinguished itself mainly by its large fence and the cleanliness of its walls, it became apparent that either Somaliland distributed its wealth much more evenly… or the country simply had fewer resources than I had imagined. In any case, the capital was soon left behind and as we bounced along the road to Abaarso I was able to appreciate the removed location of the school where I would be living and working. On top of a hill, surrounded by valleys and dessert planes, the school was a bucolic call to action, and I had arrived at last to do my part.