Djibouti?

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Nope, I'd never heard of it either until I accidentally opened up my LP one day to reveal the mighty fourteen pages devoted to this minute speck of dust on the map of Africa. My one reader (hi, Mum) might also be wondering why I've chosen to come here. To be honest, I'm not sure myself. There is almost nothing here and even less of any interest. The journey however is fantastic. Back in Logiya it doesn't take long to flag down one of the army of lorries that monopolise the smoothly tarmacked road running into Djibouti. The change in mode of transport is nice and the elevated cab with its vast front windscreen offers spacious panoramic views of the landscape. The post-apocalyptic wasteland that we traverse is an unexpectedly enjoyable break from the mountainous highlands I've grown accustomed to over the last month. We pass tiny, incomprehensibly isolated Afar settlements made up of their equally tiny, hide covered huts, troops of baboons, wandering camels and countless truck wrecks, ranging from a few lonely tyres and strips of metal to recently capsized whole tankers.

A short while after crossing the border we are stopped at Dikhil for a police check by the highly security conscious Djibouti authorities. One of them is clearly hankering for a bribe. Trying to frustrate us enough to float the idea of money he pointlessly scrutinises our passports over and over again. He repeatedly half-jokes that he suspects me of being in Al-Qaeda due to the Egyptian and Sudanese stamps in my passport and demands we bring our luggage to be checked for bombs. R's entire pack is ruthlessly emptied in a matter of seconds - less a search, more a demolition. We steadily maintain our fixed, forced smiles and mercifully he loses interest instead of giving my bag the same treatment. Perhaps the midday heat is too much for him. He bitterly tells us not to pay our driver anything for the lift and is rude to him throughout. This is perhaps the most galling element of the stop, because our trucker has been the epitome of conviviality throughout the journey and seems to be otherwise very popular, with friends everywhere along the route.

After about eight hours in the truck we crest a hill and see the white-washed Djibouti City shimmering in the distance. Djibouti Port, as the locals call it, is perhaps the more apt moniker, because this is its sole purpose. The French chose to colonise this inhospitable tract of desert purely for this harbour, to counteract British presence in Somaliland and across the Gulf of Aden in Yemen. Now it continues as a naval base and profitable outlet for supplying landlocked Ethiopia. Probably 90% of the traffic we see on the road here consists of HGVs. Of the country’s 700,000 occupants, 400,000 reside in this city.

We are dropped on the outskirts, allowing us an opportunity to see the outlying shanty towns before progressing to the city centre. The minibus driver decides to overcharge us, but unlike even my most unscrupulous of opponents so far he really will not back down when challenged. We have no local currency but, as most of the passengers are Ethiopian, he has been accepting Birr from them so we don't anticipate a problem. Yet when we brandish some he becomes angry. I watch others pay small amounts. Yet we are charged a fortune (even by the standards of this costly country). His rage is unbelievable. He has soon got out of his seat and come storming round the vehicle to confront me face to face. Showering me with the spittle of his plosive, incomprehensible curse words he even tries at one stage to drag R's poor bag back on board. As I travel more my skin only gets thicker and thicker to the incessant attempts to overcharge (though it can still sometimes get tiring), but what is genuinely annoying is the indignation shown when I resist being ripped off, as if I'm personally insulting people by trying to pay a reasonable price. Loathe as I am to admit defeat there really is no other way to shake him - police presence when you actually need it, don't be ridiculous! - reluctantly we pay.

Djibouti City is a strange but ultimately fairly unexciting city. It is a melting pot for Afar and Somalis, as well as American and French soldiers and ex-expatriates from around the globe. Muslim culture again dominates. I see kids of all races dressed for the streets of LA side by side with military uniform and the ubiquitous Afar and Arab sarongs. It is a warped mix of Western and African characteristics which, in such a small space, leads to some sharp contrasts. On our second evening we eat at a roadside restaurant near to a group of affluent, chatty children, happily mauling their large mounds of food. Next to them a father and son eat scraps off the street. The architecture is either functional or old French colonial, more suited to the countryside of the Gironde. The buildings in the old European quarter are aesthetically interesting mostly for their crumbling state of disrepair. Beggars abound, especially children, and they seem to be in a much healthier condition than the many malnourished kids I saw in Ethiopia, giving them far more energy to pursue us down the street. Even more plentiful are the 4x4s. They are everywhere, seemingly more numerous than people. It makes me contemplate the futility of our individual efforts to tackle global warming – energy saving lightbulbs at home can’t compensate for these abundant gas guzzlers.

Above all else it is punishingly hot. I quail at the thought of living here - if the prolonged boredom is not agony enough - during the ten months of the year when stepping outside is tantamount to suicide. This region, stretching from Massawa up the coast in Eritrea down to Berbera in Somaliland and inland to the Danakil is indisputably one of, if not the, hottest areas on the planet. We have little to do other than explore the city on foot and shed gallon upon gallon of sweat in our short stay.

The LP states that Djibouti is phenomenally expensive - $100 per day! True, to do anything of tangible interest, such as visit the lakes or go diving, costs a fortune, but we are able to find a twin room for a relatively reasonable $34 (out of interest, that $17 each is ten times the cost of my last hotel in Ethiopia) and with a bit of economy and time spent hunting for affordable local eateries you can scrape under the $30 a day mark. However, for a budget backpacker this is still rather a lot to remain in one place doing nothing, so after an abortive attempt to get a boat across the bay to Tadjoura and instead grabbing a new Ethiopian visa just before everything shuts down for Friday, we decide to get moving again after only a couple of days.

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Photos

Saving money
An improvised kitchen for our packets of noodles

Train station
In theory there are trains to Ethiopia...

For our protection
Hotel wall

Comments

[victoria]

reader plus 1！！ why is there no pic of urself？ how long hv ur hair grown after weeks of no barber shop？ xx

[anonymous]

Not a random statue, this is the statue of the fallen soldiers and warriors.