Pirates of Somalia (14 page)

When asked how piracy had affected her sales, Fadumo shot me an incredulous look, as if the answer were self-evident. “Most pirates spend money on three things: khat, alcohol, and women,” was her reply. “Also, very young people chew it now,” she added.

Fadumo estimated that the booming khat
suq
provided a livelihood to over two hundred vendors. One reason for the abundance of merchants is that launching a khat business requires no capital outlay; distributors are happy to supply a new vendor on consignment. “Only one and a half years ago,” Fadumo said, “khat suppliers were coming and knocking at our doors, begging us to be sellers. Now there are too many dealers … the market is flooded with them.” Back then, there would be days when she would only earn 20,000 to 30,000 shillings ($0.60–$0.90) profit, and occasionally she would not have any customers at all. At the time I interviewed her in June 2009, her gross revenue for an average day had risen to about $550–$600, of which Fadumo kept $100–$110 of profit. There was so much competition, she told me, that in order to get a high-quality product she had to be proactive; on many days she would travel up to thirty kilometres outside of Garowe to intercept the earliest shipments before they reached the city.

Kenyan khat was far more popular with her customers, and Fadumo did not even bother to stock the Ethiopian variety. The same went for Maryan and Faiza. “People say
mirra
[Kenyan khat] gets you in a better mood,” explained Faiza.

Piracy had also made a big difference to Maryan’s and Faiza’s balance sheets.

“The men have more money,” Maryan said. “They buy larger amounts and they don’t ask for loans.”

“We’ve had a lot of problems with loans in the past,” said Faiza. “They take the khat from you when they can’t afford it, and they won’t pay you back.”

“The pirates pay in cash, nothing less,” said Maryan, smiling broadly.

While men are the exclusive consumers of khat, those who sell it to them are almost exclusively women. According to Maryan, the collapse of the central state had forced Somali women to be more self-reliant. “The men are mainly unemployed,” said Maryan, “and the women have been forced to earn money to pay the bills, school fees, and things like that. They have to work to survive. Khat is a very reliable source of income.”

Perhaps one reason for its reliability is the fact that its price remains remarkably stable. But in a city where a cappuccino costs twenty-five cents, and where the majority of residents have no steady job, the twenty dollars required to maintain a steady high over the course of a day makes khat as expensive and luxurious a plant as medieval saffron. So prohibitive is the cost that I was continually baffled by the round-the-clock crowds chewing in the streets, against a backdrop of poverty and squalor; the steady influx of pirate dollars in recent years seemed the easiest explanation. Indeed, piracy has weighted so much of the daily economic life in Puntland towards the buying, bargaining, and bartering of khat that Puntlanders would perhaps do well to junk their near-worthless currency and adopt one based on the “khat standard.”

On top of its numerous other negative effects, khat is a huge drain on Somalia’s foreign exchange holdings, sending hundreds of millions of US dollars per year to Kenya and Ethiopia at the expense of domestic investment;
¹⁰
it was for this reason that former dictator Mohamed Siad Barre tried extensively (and hopelessly) to stamp out khat use in the 1980s. Piracy, which is one of Puntland’s best foreign exchange earners, ultimately does little to improve economic opportunity on the ground, because pirate ransoms are continually recycled back into international markets via khat and Land Cruiser purchases.

* * *

Though ubiquitous amongst the local people, khat use is generally viewed by Somali expats as a sordid and disreputable activity, and many consider it a national shame. President Farole’s virulent hatred of khat is well known, and he has been heard to vow that one day Somali men will feel shame at ever having chewed the plant.

Medically speaking, khat may be less physically harmful than many other legal drugs—such as alcohol and tobacco—but its social impact is another matter. Because of the many hours required to feel its full effects, chewing khat is a time-consuming activity, necessitating a large portion of the day. While a six-pack after a hard day or an occasional smoke break can fit into the restrictions of a nine-to-five schedule, a society-wide khat addiction seems unsustainable in a modern economy. So long as the majority of Puntlanders remain un- or underemployed, khat will remain a second-tier scourge. But if and when Puntland—and Somalia in general—rejoin the rest of the world, the increasing trend of khat consumption will present a serious public policy problem for the future government.

One need only look across the Gulf of Aden for a preview of Somalia’s potential fate. In Yemen, 40 per cent of the country’s precious groundwater is devoted to growing khat, Yemeni men routinely take their families on “khat picnics,” and it is not unusual for government ministers to chew the plant continuously in their offices. Commentators often speak of the “oil curse” that stunts the political growth of many Middle Eastern and African nations; perhaps Puntland is lucky to have avoided the “water curse” that would have permitted widespread domestic cultivation of the crop.
¹¹

Jamal, my plane companion, described how he once saw a billy goat munching on a bundle of fallen khat leaves. When he had finished, the goat went trotting after the nearest female, attempting to mount her several times before giving up; the khat had evidently rendered him temporarily impotent. Jamal laughed: “It’s the same with humans.” If the problem is not addressed, Puntlanders might find that the khat epidemic poses a similarly vexing impediment to their nation-building goals.

* * *

For all of khat’s sundry evils, it is the way to a pirate’s heart. One June day during my second visit to Puntland, Boyah and some of his former gang agreed to spend the afternoon with me, for a small price: an all-you-can-chew khat buffet. As soon as the midday transport trucks had coming rolling into Garowe, Colonel Omar Abdullahi Farole—my host Mohamad’s cousin—headed to the khat market with my eighty dollars in his pocket, enough to buy roughly four kilograms of the plant, which was to last us the day.

My translator on this trip, Omar, who was another of President Farole’s sons, and I picked up Boyah just outside his house, on a rundown street littered with old tires and scrap metal. I had not seen him since our meeting four months before, but he remembered me, acknowledging my presence with a brief nod and a half-smile before turning and climbing into the Land Cruiser’s passenger seat. The Colonel, meanwhile, busied himself across town rounding up a few of Boyah’s former colleagues into an old station wagon; with his arms overflowing with khat, it was not a difficult assignment.

Soon we were tearing along the main road out of Garowe, breaking off after ten minutes to join the dirt trail leading to the cooperative farm where I had first met Boyah. A short time later the station wagon pulled up and parked alongside the Land Cruiser; inside were Colonel Omar and two of Boyah’s former running mates: Momman (a nickname) and a man I will call Ali Ghedi. The gathering soon assumed the atmosphere of a picnic, with eager hands offloading the day’s supplies:
dirins
(woven mats), thermoses of sweet tea, bottles of water, packs of cigarettes, and the half-dozen black plastic shopping bags containing the khat. We unfurled the
dirins
in the shade of a broad-limbed acacia tree and settled down, tossing our sandals into the dirt. A short distance away, a dishevelled young farmhand sat in the shade of a wooden shack, absorbedly chewing a few stems of khat that one of the pirates had handed him.

As soon as we had settled down on our
dirins
, I reached into my bag and pulled out the thank-you gift I had brought for Boyah, in appreciation of his willingness to be open with me: an Alex Rios Toronto Blue Jays T-shirt. He broke into a broad grin, immediately removing his own shirt and putting it on. “Is it official?” he asked, and I answered that it was. “How much did you pay for it?”

The Colonel laid his mat a dozen paces distant and flopped down on it, the crook of his elbow covering his eyes. He had been khat sober for thirty-two days, part of an all-around cleansing policy that granted few exemptions: “Only in wartime, when things get a little stressful,” he explained. Colonel Omar, I had learned weeks ago, was not really a colonel. A battle-hardened militiaman, the Colonel had fought in the south alongside former Puntland president Abdullahi Yusuf against the Islamist militant group Al-Shabaab, one of three conflicts he claimed to have participated in; after each, he said, he had promoted himself by one rank. “I’m going to Ethiopia soon to receive training,” he had told me. “When I get back, I’ll be a general.”

The sun was mild and a light breeze was blowing, a pleasant change from the gale-force winds constantly sweeping Garowe. Taking periodic breaks from the khat, Boyah opened a small plastic bag and removed a pinch or so of chewing tobacco, depositing it gingerly into his mouth. The conversation turned to sundry topics: women, Omega-3 fatty acids, naming customs. The pirates collectively warned me that the khat would make me sexually aroused, to the point that my urge for a woman would be unbearable; I informed them that I had chewed it before, experiencing no such effect. “The white people we see in porn movies are always so horny,” said Momman. “So how is it that you’re not?”

Mobile phones chimed like persistent alarm clocks every few minutes, each member of the circle splitting his conversational energies between his phone and the people around him in almost equal measure. One particularly harsh voice blaring from Momman’s phone, allegedly belonging to a member of Al-Shabaab, piqued my attention. My interpreter Omar summarized the exchange: the caller expressed displeasure that Momman’s pirate earnings, in his opinion, had gone not to support the Somali people but to fund President Farole’s political campaign, and he warned Momman that he might have to forfeit his life to atone for these sins. Momman remained curiously calm throughout the call; when I expressed my concern, he waved it off with one hand and told me that these threats happened daily as a matter of course. Shabaab apparently conducted its terror campaigns not only through assassinations and suicide bombings, but over the airwaves of Somali telecom networks.

Omar selected one of the half-dozen Kalashnikovs lying scattered around us—which he had recently purchased for the high-end price of $600—and declared that it must be tested. I jumped to my feet and eagerly volunteered for the assignment. Omar and I moved past the hedge marking the boundary of the farm to the banks of the trickling Nugaal River, which was struggling with its last rebellious spurts against the encroaching dry season.

Countless hours of news footage of obscure post-Cold War insurgencies had not prepared me for the raw, ear-shattering power of the AK-47. The two shots I fired into the river’s embankment seemed to make the whole earth boom and shake, until I realized that it was my own body being contorted by the force of the recoil. By comparison, the faint bursts of dust marking where the bullets hit were sadly anti-climactic. I returned to the gathering with a stupid grin stretching across my face, and was greeted by an array of patronizing smiles from the circle of pirates—the look of hardened veterans at the overzealous enthusiasm of an amateur.

I didn’t bother with any interview questions that day, but chatted amiably and did my best to blend in with the boys. My goal was achieved when, late in the afternoon, the pirates began discussing something between themselves in hushed voices. They appeared to reach a consensus, at which point Momman turned to me: “We’ve decided that you’re a cool guy,” he said.

It had been a day well spent.

* * *

Two days later, we returned to the same spot, arms weighted down with even bulkier bags of khat—and thus with a commensurately larger pirate gathering in tow. Boyah, when we picked him up on the side of the road, let us know that he had had a rough night. “I was terribly sick with a kidney problem,” he said. “I thought I was going to die, so I said goodbye to my kids. But I’m feeling much better today.” He hopped into the 4×4 and waited patiently for us to get under way.

Two other cars joined us, bringing the total gathering of pirates to seven: Boyah, Momman, Ali Ghedi, Mohammad Duale (I have changed his name), Ahmed Jadob, and two others to whom I was not properly introduced. Much like last time, we rolled out the
dirins
and flopped down, propped up on our elbows. Pulling two bundles of the wilting leaves out of the bag, Boyah offered me my pick. I hesitated for a moment before I remembered an earlier crash course in khat quality given to me by the Colonel. Quickly scanning the bundle, I chose the bunch with the greatest abundance of red-tinged stems. Boyah smiled, laughed, and slapped my leg playfully, uttering some words of praise. He was still wearing the Blue Jays shirt, evidenced by the powder-blue collar poking out from under his cotton overshirt.

The reason these men were so willing to talk to me went beyond the complimentary khat. When I had last seen him, four months ago, Boyah had been on a personal quest to atone for his past misdeeds. Now, it seemed, his feelings of remorse had spread to his former colleagues: each of the men around me claimed to have renounced piracy, never to return to his former trade—and they wanted people to know it. “It wasn’t good, either for us or our country,” explained Boyah. “It’s cursed money—it only made our lives worse. So we quit. We don’t want to get a bad name in foreign countries.”

When I suggested that the recent proliferation of warships off the Somali coast had provided an equally compelling reason to turn in one’s rocket-propelled grenades and grappling ladder, I was met with a round of scornful laughter. “Don’t think that we’re scared,” said Boyah. “Piracy is just not good for us. We’re quitting so that Somalia can get its nice name back. Seven months ago … French and US forces were killing us, and we didn’t stop then.”