Burco, Somaliland. February 26 2007

My name is Noah Wilson. My buddy, Paul, and I were on a backpacking trip around Africa. It was the trip of a lifetime, and we'd been traveling through Ethiopia for weeks. The landscapes were breathtaking, the people were kind, and we were feeling adventurous. That’s when we decided to visit Somaliland. We had heard about the ancient cave paintings in Laas Geel and felt an irresistible pull to see them for ourselves.

We were in the capital city, Hargeisa, for a day or so, soaking in the atmosphere before we decided to head out of town. Recognizing the need for caution in such a remote area, we hired armed guards for the journey. The two men we were assigned were kind of stoic and intimidating. Their names were Eddy and Ali, and they carried their rifles with a quiet, professional ease.

On our way to the caves, our guards suggested we stop and rest in Burco. The city was a dusty, chaotic symphony of noise and color. We got a hotel in town and went to get some food. The thing I remember the most about Burco 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. "Salam alaikum!" they'd call. Yet some of them hated us for no reason. Somalis are generally really friendly, so 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 would start speaking to them in Somali, their anger would deflate, and they would back down and leave us alone. At the end of the day, we returned to the hotel, exhausted, and slept.

The following day, we got up and went for breakfast. During the night, our guards had been changed. These new guards were different. They were the overtly friendly kind of Somalis, always trying to accommodate us by giving us food and water. Their names were Mohammed and Absame. They were laughing and telling stories about their 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. Their constant chatter was a welcome distraction from the bone-rattling journey.

As we got out of town and the landscape became more barren, the guards became less friendly. The conversation slowly died, and they spoke less and less English with us. Somewhere between Burco and Laas Geel, the car suddenly stopped. I looked out the window and could see a dilapidated building just a bit down the road, a crumbling shack of mud and sticks. The driver, Mohammed, pulled the car up to that little shack and turned off the engine.

Mohammed and Absame got out of the car and opened our doors. This time the guns were not just slung across their chests; instead, they were ready to shoot. Mohammed even had his pointed at my head, his finger resting on the trigger.

I couldn’t believe this was happening. My mind raced, trying to find a logical explanation. "What's going on?" I asked, my voice a panicked croak. Mohammed grabbed my shirt collar and, with a violent tug, ripped me out of the car. He started pushing me into the shack, his hand hard against my back. I looked at Paul, my buddy, trying to figure out how we’d get out of this. Paul was being shoved toward the hut by Absame, his face a mask of terror. Once inside, they pushed us onto the dirt floor. Absame stood over us, his gun aimed at my head, a silent threat.

Mohammed sat at a small, rickety 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, demanding to know what was going on, but as I did, Absame hit me in the face with the butt of his rifle. The world exploded in a flash of pain and then went black. My nose split open, and even now, I still have the scar.

When I woke up, I was lying on the dirt floor, my head throbbing. Mohammed had our passports and papers. Paul was huddled in a corner, and I could smell the distinct, sharp scent of urine. He had pissed in his pants. I can’t tell you how long we were kept in that shack. The days all ran together, a monotonous rhythm of fear and hunger. The heat was unbearable, and the nights were freezing. However, later I heard it was a few months.

After I had been there for a while, maybe a month or more, I heard Mohammed on the telephone. He sounded angry and frustrated, his voice a series of sharp, agitated words. Mohammed hung up his phone and walked over to where Paul and I were huddled. He was talking to Absame, his voice a low, furious murmur. 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. The motion was familiar and terrifying.

Soon, we were leaving the countryside and returning to the city limits. The landscape began to fill with houses and cars, a sight that gave me a strange, hollow sense of hope. 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, a chillingly friendly smile. Again, they were acting like those super-friendly Somali people, shaking our hands and speaking in English. They got our things out of the car, put them at our feet, and drove off.

We were free, but we were never the same.

Sincerely,

Noah Wilson