Somalia / Bosnia Journal 1992
Tuesday, November l0, l992 - Nairobi
Up at about 5AM, leave the big suitcase in Barbara's room so we can check out of our rooms. (Having to pack for the heat of Africa and winter in Bosnia made for taking more than one would normally want to carry.) Take a small bag with enough stuff to get us through the next couple of days, grab some breakfast, pick up a couple of bottles of water (a major issue in these situations. Though some feel the better hotels like this might have a sufficiently good water purification system, bad water is the simplest way to get dysentery and be down for the count, so avoid local water [i.e., don't get water in the mouth while showering, brush teeth dry or with bottled water, avoid uncooked foods like salads and fruit, avoid juice that might be mixed with water and don't drink anything with ice in it]. It makes for pretty spare and usually dull eating, but it's better than the alternative.) and get in the vans for the airport.
Checking in at the charter airline at Wilson Field, paying our fees and getting ourselves and our bags weighed was all done in a kind of fog. All I could think about was these God-damned planes! What the hell was I going to do if I couldn't get in one of them? Panos introduced us to the group of journalists who were going to be accompanying us to Baidoa (the City of Death); Andy (Reuters) and his photographer, Hoss (a Kenyan); Tom, (AP) and his photographer, David (who later told us he was still carrying shrapnel from a shell that landed near him in Sarajevo); Sonya (Voice of America) and Scott, (USA Today).
Finally, out on the tarmac, I look over the situation. One is a ten-seater twin engine and the other is a five-seater (six including the pilot). Though logic says the bigger one would have more room, it doesn't seem to work that way for me. The big one has windows that don't open and the only way in and out is a door on the left side behind the wing. Figuring it might be OK if I sit beside the door I get in, but can't straighten up, can't breathe, can't stay and get right back out. Richard and Phil are watching, aware of my dilemma, and are trying to be helpful. I explain the situation to Barbara, who confides that she doesn't like small spaces either (is this the blind leading the blind?) and Stephanie mentions that she can't stand heights. Almost able to see the humor in the situation, I take a look at the small plane, reminding myself that I've been in them in the past without any problem. Two very cramped seats in the back, two in the middle and two in front, both of which have controls. The door is on the right side. I ask the pilot which side he sits on and, blessed man, he says "the left," so I ask if it's OK if one of us sits next to him and he says, "sure." Phil and Panos and the two photographers are going to ride in this one and it's OK with them if I sit in front, so I go back to Barbara. She says she'll be OK in the co-pilot's seat in the other plane and Stephanie says she won't look down, so we load up.
Our pilot is a tall African with a great smile and an easy manner. He fires it up and asks me to keep the door open while we taxi out to the strip (a request I'm only too happy to comply with) and before I know it I'm having fun! Phil, kind soul, keeps checking on me, but so far so good. At the take-off place we close and lock the door (no panic, I can breathe), I turn and look at Phil and give him a smile and he gives me a thumbs up and we're off!
We are to fly two and one-half hours to Mandera camp in Northeast Kenya, where we'll stop and refuel before setting off over the border into Somalia. Massive sweeps of clouds fill the sky, but we power through them, tossed about a bit when we're inside, then break free and suddenly the vast expanse of Africa is laid out below. It is extraordinary. Once away from Nairobi it's as though there is no civilization anywhere. In even though the vegetation is still not lush, there is, when you see it from this height, an almost palpable sense of verdance, of fecundity, to the land; a deep richness that speaks of a profound fertility. It is, they say, the cradle of mankind, and somehow a sense of that magnificence is communicated as your eyes scan the horizon. How then to explain all the disaster, all the cruelty?
Panos fills us in a bit. Says that last week in Baidoa there were 65 dead per day being picked up off the street. People simply put dead bodies outside their houses if they are themselves too weak to bury them. Others may just be lying where they have died. Some of the bodies come from the medical treatment centers or the feeding centers, having gotten there too late. The 65 a day figure is down considerably from what it was in recent weeks (over 200 per day in September) and is considered to be "almost normal," normal being 2 deaths per l0,000 people per day.
A great source of frustration to the relief workers is a sort of Muslim fatalism among these people. If a child dies of starvation or a malnutrition-related disease, it is often considered "the will of Allah." This attitude sometimes keeps people from coming for help for sick or starving children who could be saved by feeding and re-hydration therapy. If, on the other hand, someone does another person harm, it requires a response. A kind of blood-for-blood code. It's only one of the many problems one confronts when coming to the aid of those with a different culture, understanding and background.
As we float along above this troubled land I can hear Phil getting his ears filled by David, in back of him, on the dangers of life in Sarajevo. Another world.
The plane begins to descend and I look in vain for a landing strip. It must be out there somewhere. Finally, off in the distance, there appear some unusual colors and shapes. Mandera is a small town that has become the temporary home to an additional 55,000 Somali refugees for whom the UNHCR has established this camp and to whom they are trying to provide supplies and services. This particular group is made up primarily of members of the Marehan Clan, which was associated primarily with Siad Barre. Driven out of their country by Gen. Aidid's forces, they squatted here in appalling condition, starving and dying until the camp was set up and the UNHCR could begin to develop some systematic approach to dealing with them. It's still not in very good shape, having been moved twice as it swelled in size, threatening to engulf the town.
Mandera itself sits in a triangle in Northeast Kenya, with Ethiopia just to its north across the river and Somalia just to its east, all three countries visible as we descend.
The unusual colors I spotted are pieces of blue plastic sheeting that have been issued by the UNHCR and placed on top of many of the small, round, stick-framed huts, known as "tukuls," which define the camp's two and one-half by one and one-half square kilometers. The sheeting is an attempt to ward off the effects of the rainy season that has just begun.
Swinging once around over the town and the camp we come down toward the strip (which looks like a dirt surface from here), passing over the backs of a camel herd tethered below us. A smooth landing on a rough surface and we're down. Suddenly the air, which had been quite cool up high, is very close and hot and Panos asks me to open the door to let in whatever breeze there is as we taxi toward a waiting Land Rover.
We're greeted by Gert, a Swedish UNHCR representative who heads what is known as the Cross-Border-Operation up here. The other plane lands and, as we're waiting for the refueling to take place, Gert offers a ride to the UNHCR compound's latrines for those in need of such a stop while the rest of us walk over to an open walled structure where a few uniformed Kenyan soldiers are taking a break in what is apparently their recreation room. It has a couple of broken-down easy chairs and a dirty sofa and a very welcome supply of cold soft drinks. It's hot! We're introduced around and soon a couple of us are engaged in conversation with an off-duty lieutenant who speaks good English.
He says we're lucky to have come today because yesterday it was really hot (!!) and dusty. The rains last night cooled it off and put down the dust. He seems to be a very sweet guy. Likes his job. Says he was studying to be an economist, but decided to drop out and try the army. Not a minor decision because the minimum enlistment is 9 years! Says he's from western Kenya and speaks of having gone to school right on the rim of the Rift Valley, which is supposed to be fabulously beautiful. He says the Kenyan Army is a good place to be, says it's kept out of politics, says members of the armed forces can't even vote. Phil asks when the Army was last involved in warfare. He says he thinks it's when Siad Barre wanted to annex northern Kenya, but he wasn't in then. Says Kenya has a unit in Bosnia-Hercegovina with the UN troops there. Nice man. Seems very gentle.
The airstrip is on a Kenyan Army Base, hence the troopers. He seems to think it's pretty good duty. Seems a bit out of the way to me. It's pretty spare. Dilapidated buildings, some made of wood, some with corrugated tin siding or roofing, some, like the rec. room, made of mud bricks. Though the foliage is still not lush it does feel more like the tropics here. There are a number of big trees in the compound and some very beautiful, brightly colored birds flitting around. The tops of the trees are laced with very large nests made of twigs and sticks. The lieutenant says the birds "help us keep the compound clean" by picking up all the fallen wood for their nests.
We get the signal and head back for the planes. The USA Today guy, Scott, leaves us here, having some things to look into.
Back in the air, we pass over the border into Somalia. It looks even more desolate than the land around the camp. The drought's effects are very evident. Dirt and scrub brush abound. The land is uneven, but could hardly be called hilly. We share a boxed lunch that Panos was clever enough to have prepared at the hotel. The pilot declines my offer to share, saying "later." I guess he's busy. As we pass through more clouds the ride is even bumpier than before. Once in the clear we occasionally pass over a road that crosses the landscape, running straight as a string as far as I can see, going off God knows where, connecting God knows what.
Now patches of ground below appear to have been marked off in some fashion. It doesn't appear that they are tended in any way, but maybe they once were. Perhaps these are the lands that the Somali nomads were driven off. Certainly no signs of agricultural activity from here. No livestock.
Now we come across patches that show signs of having been used to grow something at one point.
Now compounds. Groups of huts, tukuls, as we begin our descent toward the airstrip at Baidoa. Compounds below are surrounded by trees and within them more trees mark divisions of land, huts.
We're below the clouds now, but being tossed around quite a bit by what seems to be a good wind. As we approach, it's clear that this strip is a more solid surface, asphalt or concrete. Also, we see US C-l30 cargo planes that have landed to unload food and relief supplies. The US does nine or ten flights a day into Baidoa and three other small airfields in Somalia. Good for us!
Landing, we taxi over toward two waiting vehicles and climb down to be greeted by a striking blonde woman, a Finn named Nina Winquist, who is head of the ICRC operation here. (Probably in her early 30s, Nina is great looking, smart, dedicated and emblematic of the impressive crop of people we continue to run into. Mostly younger than one would expect, they come from all parts of the world and evince a quiet courage, commitment and humanitarian understanding without in any way appearing to be self-conscious or self-aggrandizing. It is very impressive and utterly humbling.)
Nina manages to squeeze us and our gear into the four-wheel-drive vehicles she brought and, as our pilots head back to the safety of Mandera for the night, apologizes for the gunmen she has with her. Machine-gun toting young men load into a lead vehicle while others clamber on the roofs and into the backs of ours. These, she explains, are "technicals." The term derives from the fact that UN paperwork requires an explanation for all expenditures and, since there is no provision on the paper provided for armed protection (such a thing never having been deemed necessary before), one of the first people out here wrote them off as "technical assistance," and the name stuck.
Nina explains that as a matter of policy the ICRC refuses to use technicals, but sometimes (and this is apparently one of those times) they just have to hold their noses and go along with it. So, our heavily armed caravan proceeds out of the Baidoa airstrip and toward the city.
Baidoa, which before the war had a population of approx. 60,000 people, now holds between 80,000 and l00,000. It was, we're told, a beautiful place, considered a resort city. That is no more the case. Streets are lined with wretched humanity, dirt is everywhere, many of the buildings are in ruins (not all, we're told, as a result of the fighting, but as much from people tearing down deserted buildings to find materials to build or repair their own dwellings, or for firewood). It is hot, and sweat and dust and pain fill the air. The vehicles that travel through the streets, and there are many, race along at a break-neck pace, apparently given to the concept that a moving target is harder to hit. People walk along the road, carts drawn by animals move in and out of the traffic and children play, causing me to wonder how many have died just from being run over. The honk of a horn is clearly understood to guarantee the right of eminent domain and anyone who doesn't so understand will suffer the consequences.
Guns are everywhere. Casually slung over a shoulder, hanging off an arm or out of a window, automatic weapons dot the landscape. And between the racing vehicles and the omnipresent guns, impoverished people slog along, trying to simply survive.
Our first stop is at a gate, behind which is a cluster of buildings around an open compound. Alighting from the cars we pass under the watchful eyes of their technicals (and, I guess, leave our technicals to watch their technicals) and into the hospital run by the IMC. This facility has l00 beds and treats as many gunshot wounds as it does anything else, we're told. The first face I see upon coming through the gate is a surgeon from Kansas named Charlie Livingston, who has come here for two-weeks to do what he can. "MASH was never like this," he greets me. "We operate under worse conditions than you guys ever showed." In conversation he says he's done five tours for this organization in different parts of the world, but has "never seen anything like this." In response to my questions about the situation he begins to choke up while describing the lack of sterile conditions, materials, the condition of the people. He echoes Gwen's statement that fear of amputation keeps people from coming in until it's too late to do anything else.
In the women's ward, amid the overwhelming smell of soiled bodies and human feces, everyone looks underfed. Some are almost skeletal. Many of the women have strikingly beautiful faces and wear colorful clothing, often with the head wraps traditional in Muslim cultures. Flies are everywhere.
A young doctor named Mike Boutin shows us around. He describes the men's (often young teenagers) proclivity for holding an automatic weapon like a spear, one hand on the butt of the weapon and one hand on the trigger mechanism, so that when they pull the trigger the recoil causes it to simply spray bullets in every direction, out of control. Many self inflicted wounds, many unintentional.
Into the men's ward. Again, the smell. Many gunshot wounds. All appear to be well fed "because these are the guys with the guns."
He shows us the OR (Operating Room), but because they use the English model they call it the OT (Operating Theatre). For them, the Emergency Room is "Casualty." OT is rudimentary. Livingston was right.
We meet some of the staff, all Americans. Great bunch. All described the conditions here as awful and the people's situation as pitiful. One gray-haired nurse, asked why she had volunteered to come here, said, "I retired back in Pennsylvania a while ago and got bored."
Boutin spoke of some of the problems they encounter living here. He says, "Most of the food we buy in the store is looted food from America or the European Community." He says, "More food in the area (US air shipments, convoys) has meant more guns." Then what 's the answer? "So much food that it takes the value out of having it. Flood the country with food." The biggest problem they have is "dealing with the men with the guns." Gunmen extort supplies from the NGOs. "We don't have the funds to meet their demands." As an example, he told us that IMC had negotiated a contract for renting the house where the staff lives in town. The landlord told him they had to renegotiate. He refused. The landlord demanded a meeting. He refused again. (He says it's standard here for them to demand to renegotiate everything once it's agreed to. Also standard to demand meetings when you can't agree.) The landlord then made a shooting gesture to let him know what would happen if he didn't cooperate. He again refused and they found themselves locked out of their house. Finally a meeting with the clan/village elders resulted in resolution of the deal. Another time the guards at the hospital (their own technicals) demanded more money. When he refused, they threatened to shoot him.
His favorite guard was killed four days ago, the fourth one they've had killed in squabbles with guns.
Back outside we load into our vehicles. As we're waiting for the others, those of us in the lead car are transfixed by the sight of two of our technicals, in the pickup truck directly ahead of us, fighting over an automatic weapon. It's one of those times when you can't believe that what you're seeing is actually happening. Can they be joking? Don't they understand the danger to themselves, to everyone around? Another runs up, jumps onto the truck and tries to separate them as we sit there, dumbfounded. I'm tempted, on impulse, to run up and at least get the weapon out of their hands but then, in a wink, it's up in the air, being swung around, then flying out of the grasp of whichever one had it last and cartwheeling to the ground. Somehow, it doesn't go off, no one is hurt and we all just sit and look at each other for a moment, considering.
Nina takes us by one of the two springs in town. Like everything else, it is controlled by the men with the guns. She says Siad Barre occupied this area from November of '9l to April of '92 as he was battling Aidid's forces. He conducted a reign of terror here to the extent that villagers fled, farmers left their land and everything fell apart.
Next stop is a feeding center run by CONCERN/Ireland, or Irish CONCERN, the parent organization of my group, CONCERN/America. The intention of the center was to deal with the needs of malnourished children 7 and under, providing them with special nutrients to build them back up from the near-starvation level to which they had sunk. The problem is they found so many starving adults that they've had to alter their program and deal with them. This is one of ll feeding centers CONCERN runs in the country with 22 Irish volunteers and hundreds of local staff.
Again it is a compound, this time with only one small building behind the gate and a large stable-like area, covered, with straw on the ground and mats for the people being fed. To walk through the different "stalls" is to visit hell. The stench of diarrhea permeates, skeletal bodies of children and adults lie on the mats, some not moving, hardly alive. Flies gather at their mouths, their nostrils, the corners of their eyes and they're too weak or uncaring to even brush them away. Two Irish nurses work among these wretched souls, dispensing small amounts of a specially prepared porridge-like mixture. The stalls are arranged to try to separate those with what appear to be contagious diseases from the others, or to set apart the most desperate cases, or very young children, or nursing mothers. It is staggering. Those who notice you look up, their eyes beseeching you to do something to alleviate the suffering. I move out of one stall, into a passageway, fearful that even my breathing will deprive someone of life-sustaining oxygen, and come face to face with a heart-breakingly beautiful young girl, obviously a teenager, whose shining eyes and endearing smiles belie the condition made evident by the sharp outlines of the bones of her arms threatening to pierce the skin.
I spoke to one nurse, whose name may have been Catherine, who said that conditions are very much better now than they had been. They are getting fewer children now, more adults. Adults were apparently being overlooked because of so much focus on starving children, until adult deaths overran child deaths, causing them to change focus. It is possible, she says, that most of the severely malnourished children have already died. She says they find a gap. Children over six years are around and children under one year of age can be found. The children between those ages seem to be gone.
Their focus here is feeding, thus they don't have the expertise or the equipment to deal with the terribly diseased ones. They watch for signs, for example those with watery diarrhea can be helped by oral rehydration, those with bloody diarrhea have amoebic or bacterial complications and must be hospitalized.
25% of the children in the country have died, she says.
"It's a disgrace to humanity," Nina responds.
Back in the vehicles, we head off to an ICRC kitchen. A crowd of people is gathered in front. Men in cars with weapons are in evidence, but this is hardly unique any more. A young man named Pascal, French or Belgian, tells us that the ICRC has been in the region since the war in the Ogaden (area of Ethiopia). He says ICRC decided to focus on kitchens because they meet the needs of the people and "we don't have the need for so much security."
Through the gates we go into a large, open yard that has a roofed structure on posts under which squats a crowd of 300-400 people, mostly women and children holding cans, pails or other containers, waiting to be fed. Pascal says ICRC has 770 kitchens in Somalia that feed approx. l,500,000 people daily. Here, he says they feed 500 to 600 per day. To ward off the possibility of looting they set them up simply (there is an earthen oven and simple, open kettles on an open fire at the side of the lot facing the waiting people). There are 22 such kitchens in downtown Baidoa and 56 around the outskirts. They provide two meals a day ( 250 grams rice, 30 grams beans & oil to mix for each meal). They aim to achieve the WHO (World Health Organization) standard of 2200 calories per day per person. He emphasizes that this is not a feeding center (as is CONCERN, the one we just left) but a kitchen. The intent is to supply a daily ration to maintain health, not to revitalize those in severe distress. He says they operate without the use of technicals, but gunmen have tried to force themselves in to provide security in exchange for food.
At this point there is a loud burst of automatic weapons fire from a short distance down the street. While we've been hearing the occasional shot or burst of fire off and on since we've arrived here, this is both the nearest and the most serious sounding. It appears to be an exchange of gunfire. Pascal, apparently unimpressed, introduces a Somali woman whose name sounds like Anous Hadan. She tells us that this kitchen is special because they don't allow weapons here. She says they prepare food, show others how to do so, how to wash the food. They give medicine to the children for skin diseases. She is known as the "mother" of the kitchen. She lived in the city with her family, was driven out by the war. She returned to find everything gone; her house, her livestock and her children. Some are dead, some are gone.
At one point in the discussion a man with a weapon comes into the compound, but with no more apparent concern than one would have in shooing away a pesky crow the staff sends him away. He's welcome back without his weapon, is the obvious message.
A sad fact that somehow underlines the stark reality of life in Baidoa is the realization that this crowd patiently awaiting the next meal has been squatting here, in this yard, apparently in the same posture, since the last meal. Their lives are described by when food will next be made available and they're not willing to leave and risk missing it.
After a bit more palaver, we again load up and this time are taken to an orphanage run by a local Muslim organization. Open for 5 months, it takes in orphans from a 30 mile radius. It has 675 kids now and, the man says, there are l,000 more in town. They get funding for their operation from the ICRC and CARE and try to meet the needs of the children as best they can. They have a regime of 8 hours of study per day, mostly the Koran, and they are preparing other study lessons. A woman from another Irish organization, GOAL, is there as a nurse. She distributes vitamins and tries to deal with the health and comfort concerns of the kids. She says they haven't lost a child in the last three weeks.
Inside this compound is a yard ringed by structures which provide shelter for the children. The rooms are bare, with wooden platforms raising the sleeping surface about 6 inches off the concrete floor. The platforms have straw mats for the kids to sleep on and they house about 20 to 30 kids in each room (less than the size of my garage). Outside I mention the "beds" in a less than enthusiastic voice and the Irish woman admonishes me in a tone suggesting pride of craftspersonship, saying, "they're beautiful beds."
One has almost gotten used to the smell, but the sight of all these kids in the compound is, again, almost overwhelming. As is true with kids everywhere, they are noisy and antic, which gives one hope, but many are in rags, some disfigured, others clearly handicapped. One little girl has an enormous growth on the side of her head, one emaciated child squats in the dirt dribbling watery diarrhea, crying, looking around apparently helpless. Soon another, older child comes over and tosses a handful of dirt on the puddle to cover it. One boy, skin pulled so tight over the bones that his every skeletal detail is vividly exposed, rises and moves so slowly and painfully that it is almost unwatchable. His legs move in a manner reminiscent of a stork; that painful, awful, almost regal, slow motion.
Through it all a chorus of young voices parrot that of their teacher, repeating over and over today's lesson from the Koran.
As I'm standing taking it all in, Richard comes over and points out the irony of the two beautiful trees that blossom in the center of the compound.
Again we go to the vehicles. Again Nina leads us to another of the horrors of Baidoa. This time it is a displaced person's camp. (The term refugee only applies to those who have left their country, so those still in country, even though driven from home, are DPs.) Bay Camp has about 4,000 to 5,000 people. The area where they have squatted (or perhaps been directed to squat by some agency) is broken into 8 clan areas, or zones. Though there is a well here, there is no water currently available at this site because the water pump, provided by SCF (Save the Children), was stolen. They live in tukuls, most covered by the same blue plastic sheeting we've seen, this time provided by UNICEF. These people have to walk into town (to the well controlled by the men with guns), pay for water and carry it back. Food, distributed by the ICRC, is given to clan representatives who distribute it to their people. The dilemma currently being pondered is, how do you deal with meeting the needs of these people while at the same time avoid making the situation here so attractive that they stay, thereby adding to the burdens already imposed on the city? These people made the 4 to 5 day walk here because of war, drought and famine. If they could be talked into returning to their home area (and if the fighting would not start again) they could be better provided for there.
As Nina is explaining the situation the people gather around us in the waning light, as though in expectation that we can somehow ease their plight.
(Phil, Richard, Jonathan and Del said later that of all the horrors to which we had been witness, this situation was somehow the most troubling to them. It occurred to me that each of the other situations, though displaying horrifying, grievous conditions, were presented in a context somewhat limited, understandable and from the point of view of someone who was addressing, however unsatisfactorily, that problem. Here, as all these silent, dignified people stood before us, we were faced with naked, undifferentiated need.)
Again we move off, this time to our resting place for the night: the Bikin Hotel. Built during hoped-for good times, it fell into disuse and has now been opened again in the hope the NGOs will bring in people who have need of a place to stay. We are just such a group. Middle Eastern in appearance, the hotel is a white single story building with two war surplus howitzers out front. Its tiled porch doubling as a lobby, double wooden doors open onto a hall off which open ten high-ceilinged rooms, each with two single beds. Its tile floors and white-washed walls give at least an appearance of cleanliness and, given what we had seen of the city so far, come as a relief. At the end of the hall are two rude showers complete with windows (and, I discover later, lizards), and on the left is a bathroom with two sinks and, separately, two toilets. I put my bags down in one room and am joined by Phil. The bare mattress on each bed is covered only by a single sheet (does one get under it or lie on it?) and has a hard pillow. A pair of go-aheads (shower shoes, thongs) awaits. (Of course, they're too small.)
Barbara has schlepped in with us some pasta from Nairobi, along with sauce, and arranges for it to be cooked, along with some chicken, next door at a small bar and restaurant owned by the proprietor of the hotel. She and Panos and Nina have arranged for a party this evening, to which people from all the local NGOs are invited.
It's a nice party and a good group. Interesting conversation. The local head of UNI-SOM (United Nations, Somalia) echoes the sentiment that Sahnoun was good and will be missed. (Is being, already.) He adds that the new guy (whose name I missed) is also supposed to be very good. And tough. He says there are two de facto governments in Somalia today. They are the NGOs and the clan structure. To try to force a political solution through military power without working in concert with the clans would be "a disaster." Says things are getting better. Deaths are down. The situation probably won't reach the l,000,000 deaths projected. Clan elders, if dealt with appropriately, will reestablish order and, working with the UN, can get the guns out of the hands of these kids (which is a major problem). He says the convoy from Mogadishu that was due in today didn't make it, but should be here tomorrow. Supplies of food coming in these convoys always raises the tension level. There will be looting. "Stay out of the way."
Mike Boutin of IMC continues to maintain that we should "flood the country with food," thereby reducing its value.
Dr. Said, local head of UNICEF, has just set up a program to vaccinate 5,000 kids against measles. There had been danger of an epidemic.
A young American (from Wyoming) is working with the WFP (World Food Program), air-dropping food to people in outlying areas that are either (l) inaccessible or (2) so far from feeding centers that they want to encourage them to stay home (to keep them from converging on the cities and over-stressing the system, a la the DPs we saw today at Bay Camp)
Two young guys from MSF/Holland (Medecins Sans Frontieres/Doctors Without Borders) are talking about a medical program they're setting up to meet the needs of the people such as those in the CONCERN feeding center who aren't wounded and therefore can't go to the IMC hospital. They're also full of stories about the fact that their HQ is next door to one of the biggest looter's warehouses. Said these guys have an armored vehicle they simply pull into the street and threaten convoys with. People give them what they want. "The guys with the biggest guns get the most and the best stuff."
Pretty soon my eyes are closing in the middle of sentences, so I head for bed. It's hot. Decide to stay in my clothes on top of the sheet and hope for the best as far as mosquitoes are concerned. The heat demands that the window be open. Two drivers sitting right outside the window seem intent on talking through the night. Drives me nuts, but they're the guys with the guns, so I decide not to complain.
Wednesday, November ll, l992 - Baidoa, Somalia
Not much sleep, so up early. Only cold water, so the shower (complete with lizards) is an experience. Forget shaving. Tea, boiled eggs and bread for breakfast. We find that some thought the loud voices coming from our room meant that Phil and I talked all night. Might as well have. A few minutes to reflect on what we've been seeing reveals a fairly sober group.
-Phil, with his ever-present CamCorder catching everything, is gentle, contemplative.
-Jonathan maintains his good humor, is dogged about fact-checking, noting people's names, jobs, ferreting out information, logging it all.
-Del is steadfast, never flinching, has remarked a couple of times already how important this experience has been for him.
-Stephanie, intent on finding the personal aspects of these tragedies, zeroes in and gently probes.
-Richard, also able to maintain his humor, is intense, searching, all antennae out.
-Ofra is quiet, always there, alert. The documentarian at work.
-Barbara and Panos, with very different styles, seem to compliment each other nicely. She is high energy, concerned about everything, in touch. He's more low keyed, but seems to miss nothing.
We're scheduled to check out the Red Crescent Society's (Islamic Red Cross) body pick-up detail this morning, but there's a delay as our inn-keeper wants to renegotiate the price of the hotel and meal. (Sound familiar?)
Jonathan, who has made a good connection with Andy (AP), is about to take off with the reporter and his technicals to dig up Nina so we can square away this dispute and get moving. (Andy has his own car and his personal technicals here - they came in from Mogadishu to meet him) I go along.
It's a hair-raising ride through the center of the city. If we drove fast yesterday, we're flying today. It seems that Andy's technicals are a bit nervous here, don't know, or trust, the people. (Oh, good.) I'm sure, as we race through the dusty streets, that we're going to add to the death toll ourselves. The city is a bee hive - people lined up at the various feeding/treatment centers or going about the business of life in Somalia. (Or perhaps that is the business of life in Somalia) Donkey carts cross the road. Trucks pull out, turn, pull back. Children and cars are the only things that seem to move quickly. Some people wave at us as we go by, others simply stare. Someone shouts "Galla!" (Infidel!) We hear shooting, but it doesn't seem to be aimed at us, so what's new? We arrive at the ICRC, meet more of the young, bright staff and find that Nina has already gone to the hotel, so back we go.
On the ride back, Jonathan suggests we ought to think about going to Mogadishu. Andy says we can use his "guys" there for protection. Jonathan thinks we can hitch a ride with an IMC flight from Nairobi. Question is when. It seems to me that the best possibility might be toward the end of our stay in Africa, perhaps instead of the overnight in Mombasa. We'll think on it.
Nina rides to the rescue and takes the proprietor on. Much hair pulling and upset, but we finally are told to take off, leaving Nina to patiently explain that he can't do this if he expects the ICRC or the UN to bring people back here.
Stopping in front of the IMC hospital, we watch as the Red Crescent truck makes its way down the road. A small body wrapped in filthy rags is carried out of another CONCERN feeding center across the street and placed on the truck. This an intensive feeding program for children in particular distress. Can anything be worse that what we saw yesterday? Yes. This is. It's a small building, the smell is overpowering. Four rooms filled with human beings in extremis (mostly small children and their mothers). Awful. Skeletal, oozing, whimpering, pitiful creatures. An Irish nurse/volunteer named Margaret is clearly overwhelmed and discouraged by the daunting task that faces her daily. This is the only place where we aren't told it's getting better. She sees no let up of the horror. She feeds these children every two hours with a special mixture that is hopefully going to save them, but too often doesn't. Again, the sights, sounds and smells are almost more than one can bear. How she works in these conditions is impossible to understand. Stephanie and some of the rest of us step outside, overcome.
Outside isn't better. Through the waiting crowd a figure is carted forward on a wheelbarrow and removed, left to wait in front of the building. As we gather in the street I explain to those who couldn't hear what Margaret had told me. The tiny, frail body we saw carried out to the truck minutes ago was the fourteen year old daughter of a woman who had walked 45 kilometers yesterday from her home, with two sick children - one babe in arms who was still in there and the daughter now dead. After leaving the two children with Margaret, the woman turned around and began walking the 45 kilometers back to get her other three children who were in the same condition.
Richard, moved by the obviously desperate condition of the figure we saw deposited at the door of the center, suggests we might want to go back in and tell Margaret about her (we assumed it to be a woman). Reluctant to add to Margaret's burden, but unwilling to let this woman, who seemed very close to death, simply expire on the doorstep, unnoticed, we go back in. Margaret, bless her, never bats an eye at our request and comes out immediately, only to have placed in her arms another baby who is, literally, bones. Holding the child, she looks over the woman deposited there in a heap, determines that she is in fact a man and directs that he/she be taken inside.
The hotel problem resolved, Nina then scooped us up for a trip out to see a local village about 45 minutes drive south. The driver whose car I got in was named Ahmad and he was a maniac. Someone must have told him it was important to get there first. We raced down the rutted dirt road that serves as a highway, swinging from side to side as Ahmad tried to avoid the worst of the washboard surfaces, spewing rocks the size of small boulders in our wake (those that didn't embed themselves in the bottom of the car while trying to come through) as we sped along. Occasionally we'd slide to a near stop as we'd come to a depression in the road meant to serve as a culvert to keep the road from washing out in the rainy season, maneuver our way gingerly through, and then tear off madly down the next section of "highway." (I came to long for those culverts. I was sure their irregular occurrence was the only reason we maintained contact with the ground) Before long it occurred to a couple of us that if security was truly a concern this might not prove to have been the best idea in the world. We were as far out in front of everyone else as could be and the cars behind us, wherever they were in the flying dust, didn't have any technicals with them as far as we knew. Ah, well.
Shortly, out of the dust behind us, came a second car, honking. (The idea that someone could actually catch up to us made me tremble for those in the company of that driver.) We stopped and drivers got out and poked around for a while under the hood of the other car, then a can of brake fluid appeared (brake fluid!?!), was poured in. And we're off.
The countryside is very flat, very hot and very dry. The scrub brush is fairly plentiful, but again, far from what some would expect in Africa. We occasionally see camels and camel herders. (Camel milk and camel meat are regular fare among these nomads.)
