Nairobi to Puntland: A journey through heat, dust, AK-47s

The pilot of the CRJ 200 made a steep banking manoeuvre into General Mohamed Abshir International Airport.

We hit the tarmac at exactly a minute to 9 am, according to the affable air hostess. The well-paved runway shows little wear, perhaps since there are few landings in a day. Ethiopian Airlines is one of the major African carriers that makes regular landings here.

The climate around the airport was in stark contrast to that in Nairobi. While Nairobi was cloudy on that Wednesday morning, temperatures outside Garowe airport ranged between 35° to 38°, enough to boil an egg if left on the ground for a while, locals claim in jest.

And the winds? I have been to Marsabit, where the largest wind power in Africa stands, yet these winds are nothing compared to those around Puntland’s main airport.

My hat fell off as soon as I disembarked and I must have scared the daylights out of the locals as I ran across the tarmac in a dash to retrieve the head covering. The more I ran, the faster the wind blew my hat away. Still, I managed to get hold of it. Phew!

If the wind was my induction into the fast-paced life here, more drama followed inside the immigration desk. Contrary to some people’s expectations of law and order in the country, the immigration desk here has a semblance of order, despite Puntland being a semi-autonomous state within Somalia.

Cameras, strict passport checks, stamps, the works—Puntland has them all. The drama bit? They needed more money for a visa, even though I had procured the same service in Nairobi a week earlier. “You, get back here,” an officer shouted as soon as I made my way to the baggage collection point. The officer barked the orders in Somali and was getting irritated that I did not heed his orders immediately.

I just had my passport stamped and did not understand why I had to turn back to the immigration desk. “Sixty dollars, bring,” another officer at the desk said, this time in some form of English. “Why do I need to pay 60 dollars?” I asked the officer. “Airport visa,” he said.

Hesitantly, I paid the amount, got a receipt printout, and headed outside. What would have happened if I had not had the extra cash? Would they have deported me back to Kenya?

In the parking lot, I tried to make some calls to the driver Abdalla had dispatched for my transfer to Burtinle, a town located three hours south of Garowe.

Mohamed Salad spoke no word in English, yet I was to give him all the instructions that he needed in order to convey me safely to Abdalla, my host in Burtinle. But we did communicate, even laughing at each other’s ‘funny’ jokes, or whatever we thought they meant.

Garowe city is about 20 minutes from the airport on a smooth tarmac. We followed a truck full of armed men, AK-47S at the ready. The mean-looking fellows appeared as if they needed very little provocation to use the rifles. As I found out, a visitor here is better off getting used to the sight of AK-47S, lots of them. I bet Mohamed had one tucked in somewhere inside the car, just in case. I preferred not to ask him.

While the drive to the town was uneventful, my head was pounding due to the excruciating heat. Dehydration was taking a toll on me, thanks to the desert sun. Mohamed noticed my agony and stopped at a nearby shop where we got several bottles of ice-cold water and some dates.

He also collected a sizeable stock of khat, that stimulant from Nyambene Hills in Kenya, and so much beloved by the local population in Somalia. A generous man, he offered me some miraa, hoping it would kill some boredom during the road trip to Burtinle. I politely declined.

The road to Burtinle is partially paved with some sections totally dilapidated. Still, Mohamed drove the ramshackle Toyota Corolla at breakneck speeds, kicking up enough dust to blind the camels that he so much tried to avoid.

It still baffles me how he managed to drive at such speeds while chewing miraa, sipping some soda and water, taking calls from two cell phones, and ducking camels. Drivers here keep to the right side of the road, and I got scared every time he attempted to overtake the multi-coloured long-distance trucks since he could barely see traffic to the left of the road.

The long drive notwithstanding, the young man stopped only twice, for a bathroom (bush) break and to check the condition of the exhaust pipe that had been hit by a rock, making it vibrate violently. Apart from security checkpoints (again manned by men armed to the teeth), I saw no single traffic policeman along the more than 150-kilometre stretch. Kenyans! Is this not a driver’s paradise?

Compared to Garowe, Burtinle is a small, one-street town with only the basic amenities. No fancy restaurants, no designer shops, and certainly, no rowdy Gen Zs. Like other regions in Somalia, security (or insecurity) seems to determine the pace of life here.

At a small eatery, Abdalla and I ordered a meal of rice served with camel and goat meat.

Curiously, though, there are more men armed with AK-47S than there are diners here. The nearby contested border with Ethiopia is a flashpoint. Chaos can erupt at any time. Still, in my few days’ stay here, I never heard a single gunshot. Later in the afternoon, we head back to Garowe, where life is more bearable.