Burco, Somaliland. February 26 2007

My buddy and I were on a backpacking trip around Africa. We’d been travelling through Ethiopia when we decided to visit Somaliland. We wanted to see the cave paintings in Laas Geel. We were in the capital city for a day or so when we decided to head out of town to go to Laas Geel. We hired armed guards for the travel. The two guards were kind of stoic and intimidating. On our way to the caves, our guards suggested we stop and rest in Burco. We got a hotel in town and went to get some food. The thing I remember the most is the people. The way they were both extremes. Of course, most of them were really super friendly. They were always excited, waving at us and yelling from across the street, you know? Yet some of them hated us for no reason. Somalians are generally really friendly. The odd part was that some of the people were just downright nasty. Once, I even got a random sucker punch to the head by some old bearded Somali guy yelling something about invading infidels. People even threw rocks at us. When Eddy (the guard, that was his name) would start speaking to them in Somali, they would back down and leave us alone. At the end of the day, we returned to the hotel and slept.

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The following day we got up and went for breakfast. During the night, our guards were changed. These guards were different. They were the overtly friendly kind of Somalis, always trying to accommodate us by giving us food and water. They were laughing and telling stories about Niqab-wearing lady friends, asking questions about our travels and where we came from. It made the time go by faster on those awful country roads.

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As we got out of town, the guards became less friendly. They spoke less and less English with us. Somewhere between Burco and Laas Geel, the car stopped. I could see a dilapidated building just a bit down the road. The driver, Mohammed, pulled the car up to that little shack. Mohammed and Absame (the other guard) got out of the car and opened our doors. This time the guns were not just hung across their chest; instead, they were ready to shoot. Mohammed even had his point at my head.

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I couldn’t believe this was happening. Mohammed grabbed my shirt collar and ripped me out of the car. He started pushing me into the shack. I’m looking at Paul, my buddy, trying to figure out how we’ll get out of this. Paul is being shoved toward the hut by Absame. Once inside, they pushed us onto the dirt floor. A same stood over us, gun aimed at my head.

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Mohammed sat at a table and started making phone calls. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but I think I heard the Somali word for westerners. I began to protest what was happening, demanding to know what was going on, but as I did, Absame hit me in the face with the butt of his rifle, and it split my nose. Even now, I still have the scar.

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When I woke up, Mohammed had our passports and papers. Paul had pissed in his pants. I can’t tell you how long we were kept in that shack. However, later I heard it was a few months.

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After I had been there for a while, maybe a month or more, I heard Mohammed on the telephone. He sounded angry and frustrated. Mohammed hung up his phone and walked over to where Paul and I were huddled. He was talking to Absame. Absame seemed really defeated by whatever Mohammed had said to him. Afterward, they picked us up by our shoulders and shoved us back into the car.

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Soon, we were leaving the countryside and returning to the city limits. Eventually, the car pulled up to an airport. It was the Burco Airport. Mohammed stopped the vehicle, and they both got out. They opened our doors and smiled really friendly to us. Again they were acting like those super over-friendly Somali people, shaking our hands and speaking in English. They got our things out of the car, put it at our feet and drove off.

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Sincerely,
Noah Wilson