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’d been 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. Most of them were 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, his name) would start speaking to them in Somali, they would back down and leave us alone. We returned to the hotel and slept. 

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 Somalis, always trying to accommodate us by giving us food and water. They laughed and told 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. 

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

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 shack by Absame. Once inside, they pushed us onto the dirt floor. Absame stood over us, gun aimed at my head. 

Mohammed sat at a table and started making phone calls. I couldn’t understand what he said but 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. 

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, I later heard that it was only 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. Mohammed hung up his phone and walked over to where Paul and I were huddled on the ground. He was talking to Absame. Absame seemed defeated by whatever Mohammed had said to him. Afterwards, they picked us up by our shoulders and shoved us back into the car. 

Soon, we were leaving the countryside and getting back into city limits. Eventually, the car pulled up to an airport—the Burco Airport. Mohammed stopped the vehicle, and they both got out. They opened our doors and smiled friendly to us. Again, they acted like those super friendly Somali people, shaking our hands, speaking in English, etc. They got our things out of the car, put them at our feet, and drove off. 

Sincerely,
Noah Wilson