by Ross Kemp
But then, as I stood on the beach, a boat slid slowly into view.
It was a small boat. Old. Painted white, with an outboard motor. There were two men in it, dark-skinned and with black and white keffiyehs wrapped around their heads to obscure their faces. One of these men was our pirate. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt and dark trousers. His body was thin – slight almost. In many ways he was unremarkable to look at. Unprepossessing. As we settled down to talk on the beach, I had the impression that he was rather bemused by my interest in him and the way he made his living, as though sea piracy was rather run-of-the-mill. The norm. At the same time he seemed aware of the image that Somali pirates had around the world – especially since the hijacking of the Tanit and the Alabama – and he wanted to put his side of the story.
I asked him how he became a pirate and he explained that he used to be a fisherman. ‘The community faced difficulties,’ he told me, ‘because the fishermen were chased away from the sea by the invasion of illegal fishing. The problem started because of the invasion and the fighting began. When they destroyed our fishing nets with fishes inside, then we started fighting them.’
Colonel Abshir had told me that the pirates of Somalia were illiterates who had no idea of illegal fishing and toxic waste. This man admitted to me that he was indeed illiterate, but he certainly knew something of the origins of piracy in the area. As he spoke, though, it became clear that it had definitely evolved into something bigger. Our pirate did not work for himself. He was bankrolled by someone further up the line. An investor. A Mr Big. When a ransom was collected successfully, he told me, the pirates would get 30 per cent, Mr Big would get 70 per cent. A disproportionate cut but still – 30 per cent of a few million goes a long way in Somalia. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘There are some who are very rich. Everywhere you go, people welcome you because they say you have a lot of money, and they receive you warmly.’
What did the pirates do with that sort of money?
‘We use it to build houses,’ he told me. ‘We give half to our families and the other half we spend on our relatives, who could be in the town or the countryside.’ Some of the money, he told me, he used to buy herds of camels – camel meat being much prized as a food in Somalia.
I asked our pirate to talk me through the process of capturing a ship. How did they go about it? What techniques did they use?
‘We have some satellite radios that we use for communication,’ he explained. ‘We speak to the ship and order it to stop. If it does not stop, we open fire and eventually stop it by force. A ship carrying heavy cargo can be captured in less than five minutes. First we enter the ship and order all the persons on board to stand still. Then we anchor it. We install communication systems and communicate with the owner of the ship. We ask for the ransom money and tell them that we will hold the ship until the demand is met.’
He made it sound simple, and in a way, I suppose, it was. ‘A ship has nothing to defend itself with,’ he explained. ‘Nothing!’ I asked him what sort of weapons they used. He favoured an AK-47; others, he told me, were partial to the PKM – a Russian general purpose machine gun. Professional equipment for a professional job, most of which, he told me, came into the country from Ethiopia. But he qualified this. ‘You can only use your weapon to defend against someone who attacks you. You do not need to use it for other purposes. Nobody just opens fire and wants to waste bullets.’
I thought of Storm and of his assertion that the Somali pirate is a stupid pirate. I wasn’t sure I agreed. This guy sounded like he knew what he was talking about. Like he had it all worked out.
Abshir had predicted an escalation of violence, and I wondered what our pirate’s take on the recent shootings aboard the Maersk Alabama and the Tanit heralded. Had the situation changed now that the Americans and French had killed Somali pirates? ‘If a person enters our territory,’ he said calmly, ‘he won’t be killed. But the French and Americans have caused problems by killing our people. Others will not be killed. We will contact their government to tell them that we have taken some of their nationals as hostages and tell them to come to Puntland to sort the matter out.’ He clapped his hands together, almost as if he was relishing the prospect. It would be a brave foreign official, I thought, that would take him up on his offer…
I wanted to know how our man had become a pirate, how he had learned the techniques necessary to perform such audacious acts. The answer truly surprised me. ‘If a person lives by the sea,’ he said, ‘and has sailed many times, then he can learn to be a pirate. You can learn piracy if you have your own gun and know how to defend yourself. There’s nothing difficult about being at sea. If you’re well trained you can do anything you want.’
But if you’re well trained, that means somebody has trained you.
He nodded his head. ‘Yes. I received a little training. There are about 30 schools for sea piracy in Somalia.’
Thirty schools. I had no idea if he was telling the truth, but if our pirate was alleging thirty, there’s definitely more than one.
‘The training takes about a year. They teach how to capture the ship, resolve the problems and how to keep the ship. They teach us about every sort of weapon – rocket-propelled grenades, anti-aircraft missiles and many other types.’
And who was it that was giving them this training?
‘Our trainers are ex-marines, people who used to be in the Somali military.’
Someone, though, must be paying for all this. Our pirate nodded, before explaining that what often happens is this: the big bosses pay for the pirates to undergo their year’s training. Then, when the pirates start making money, they pay their bankrollers back. Student loans, Somalia style.
I asked him if he thought piracy would ever stop in Somalia. Again he nodded. ‘If we get a proper government, then sea piracy will stop.’ That, at least, seemed to be something everybody could agree on.
Our interview was drawing to a close. There was one more question I wanted to ask him. ‘In other countries,’ I suggested, ‘you might be perceived to be criminals. How do you answer that?’
He looked genuinely astonished by the suggestion. ‘Who?’ he asked. ‘Me? I am not a criminal and I have not committed any crime. And I’ve never hurt a white man.’ He slapped his hands together again, as if to say that’s that. But that final assertion begged the question: how many men had he hurt that didn’t happen to be white?
And so our conversation came to an end. I thanked the pirate for agreeing to talk to me, and he told me that I would always be welcome in Somalia.
I appreciated the thought, and I’d never say never. But as the pirate from Puntland disappeared from view, his old white boat slipping over the horizon of that clear blue sea, I reflected on this: from what I knew about his ravaged, dangerous, violent country, I couldn’t see that happening for a very long time to come.
Modern-day pirates: not exactly Jack Sparrow.
Pirates off the coast of Somalia hold Skipper Florent Lemacon and the four passengers (including his wife and three-year-old son) on board the French yacht Tanit to ransom. Tragically, Lemacon later took a bullet in the head and died during a rescue attempt.
After almost 20 years of civil war, Somalia is a country ripped apart.
One in six children under the age of five suffers acute malnourishment; one in four dies before they reach this age.
Captain Lieutenant Commander Martin Simpson welcomes me on board the HMS Northumberland in the port of Salalah on the coast of Oman.
I take a look at the radar screen on the HMS Northumberland.
Searching for pirates 24/7: a constant watch is kept on the bridge.
This ship would be very difficult for pirates to board because of its high freeboard.
A vulnerable ship pumps sea water from its fire hoses to prevent pirates from boarding.
Captain Andy Morris gives his briefing before searching a suspicious vessel.
Aboard a Royal Marine RIB – rigid inflatable boat – speeding
towards a suspicious skiff.
Drugs and guns are not the only cargo being transported across the Gulf of Aden. These are desperate people trying to leave a war-torn country.
Boarding the Merlin helicopter.
More unfortunate Africans risking the dangers of being smuggled across the water to Yemen.
To alleviate the boredom, the Marines are continually cleaning and stripping their weapon systems.
Decompressing in the 45-man mess, so called because, surprise surprise, 45 men live in it.
Northumberland makes contact with the pirated MV Saldanha.
This is a classic pirates’ skiff. Fuel, water, food and the big giveaway, the 12-foot ladder.
Captain Andy Morris finds two RPG warheads on board, further proof that these guys aren’t fishermen.
The pirates’ skiff finally sinks as the mini-gunner looks on.
Each year, more than 100 oil workers are kidnapped by pirates in Nigeria.
The Niger Delta’s maze of mangrove swamps makes it the perfect hiding place.
Robin Barry Hughes and Matthew Maguire, two British hostages who were kidnapped by pirates and held deep in the impenetrable Niger Delta.
Billy Graham was kidnapped by Nigerian pirates, held captive for 26 days without food and forced to dig his own grave.
Duncan Macnicol, a former ship’s captain, takes me out into Lagos harbour, and explains how the merchant shipping vessels waiting to enter the harbour are sitting ducks: easy targets for pirates.
Hell on earth. Ajegunle is Lagos’s biggest waterside slum. It’s difficult to say how many people live here, but one thing’s for sure – it’s too many.
The slum is so polluted that you can’t see the riverbank for the rubbish that is piled up by the side of the water. It was like crossing the River Styx.
One of the 17 or so chiefs of Ajegunle gives me a tour of the area and explains some of the effects piracy has had on his community.
Sonny takes me to see a damaged oil well head in Ogoniland in the heart of the Niger Delta.
A leaking deserted oil head, the cause of devastating pollution to the surrounding area.
The oil companies claim to have ‘cleaned up’ this area. It didn’t look very clean to me.
I meet Ledum Mitee, a human rights campaigner for the Ogoni people.
On my way to another spill near Bodo, feeling slightly concerned about being kidnapped.
The angry villagers of Bodo speak out about the effect the presence of the oil companies has had on their livelihoods.
This villager believes that the only solution to the problem is to blow up the manifold.
Governor Amaechi – or to give him his full title, the Right Honourable Rotimi Chibuike Amaechi, His Exellency the Executive Governor of Rivers State.
As requested we arrive at 7.30 in the morning, ready for our 8.00 meeting. But we were kept waiting…
… and waiting for two and a half hours…
… before finally being ushered in to see the man himself.
False alarm: we are asked to wait some more, and are offered breakfast – chilli doughnut with blancmange filling. There was also goat stew filled with bones.
The governor takes me on what is little more than a public relations tour of all the good works he has established in Port Harcourt.
He is a charming man, and genuinely popular with a lot of people, including these children we visited at a local school.
MEND – the Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta. ‘It must be clear that the Nigerian government cannot protect your workers or assets. Leave our land while you can, or die in it… Our aim is to totally destroy the capacity of the Nigerian government to export oil.’
Me in a MMEA (Malaysian Maritime Enforcement Agency) helicopter, patrolling the Malacca Straits for pirates.
From the helicopter I saw one of the nine radar stations positioned on small islands the length of the straits, which constantly scan the area for suspicious activity.
‘Go go go!’ Members of the MMEA board a ship and raid it for pirates as part of the training exercise.
Within minutes they have swept the ship, handcuffed the ‘baddies’ and have them all laid out on the deck, face down with their legs crossed.
Finally, red smoke is sent up to indicate that the ship has been secured.
The captain of the Nepline Delima, bearing scars inflicted by a pirate’s machete.
Muhammad Hamid shows me a photo of the pirates lying face down after the boat was retaken.
Muhammad’s bravery was big news in Malaysia; however, he cannot return to the sea and the job he loves.
I finally get to meet a pirate at his house in Batam. He asks to be addressed as ‘Lightning Storm Across the Sea’.
With the pirates in a very small boat in the busy shipping lanes off the coast of Batam.
Storm and the other pirates explain the term ‘shopping’ to me.
A long walk in to ‘Pirate Island’, trying to avoid the highly poisonous stone fish.
Taking off the rough edges in order to make the bamboo less difficult to climb.
Being proved wrong! I witness five pirates in a tree.
Storm explains how the pirates slash the palms of any crew members who put up a fight.
We head back from the island in a torrential Indonesian rainstorm. There’s no gold at the end of this pirate’s rainbow.
Talking to a pirate’s wife. ‘He’s a naughty boy!’
I meet with the pirates for the last time.
Big business. I finally come face to face with a Somali pirate.
Afterword
When I set out to investigate modern-day piracy, I didn’t really know what I’d find. The things I discovered truly opened my eyes.
Piracy, it seems to me, exists for three reasons: criminal, economic and political. Sometimes the boundaries between these three reasons become blurred. Many criminals commit acts of villainy because they have an economic imperative, because they are poor. And many people are poor because of the terrible political situations in their country. What is undoubtedly the case is that it’s not easy to make absolute judgements about the causes of piracy. And there are no easy solutions.
In Somalia I heard it said that piracy was the direct result of illegal fishing and the dumping of toxic waste, but it was also clear that there was a booming piratical business from which a lot of people were making a lot of money. In Nigeria there was some piracy that was clearly a direct result of economic hardship and some that was politically motivated, but on the other side of the fence there were plenty of people who saw MEND as out-and-out criminals. No doubt some of them were. The pirates of Batam claimed to go shopping simply to put food on the table for themselves and their families; while it was true that some of them drove big cars and had decent houses, you had to wonder whether they would have been forced into criminality had it not been for Indonesia’s economic shape.
It was always touch and go that I would ever meet any actual pirates. I was glad I did, but in the end I was aware that the people I spoke to were little more than foot soldiers. The pirates themselves – the ones who take the risks and face the dangers – are just the tip of the iceberg. They are backed up by greater forces. The pirate from Puntland told us that 70 per cent of the takings from a ransomed ship went to these Mr Big figures, sponsors who paid for their training, expected their cut in return and had now grown filthy rich. In Nigeria small-time pirates were bunkering oil, but it was the people in authority – government ministers and wealthy businessmen – who were putting the oil onto the open market and reaping the substantial rewards. And in south-east Asia shipowners were hiring pirates to hijack their own vessels, often with the complicity of some of the crew, as part of elaborate and massive insurance scams.
Many merchant vessels around the world fly flags of convenience. This means that they originate from one country but are registered in another in order to attract a lower tax liability. When these ships get into trouble, howe
ver, they expect the maritime forces of the international community to come to their rescue. Whether you think that’s acceptable or not, one thing is clear: piracy itself cannot be effectively policed. In Somalia a merchant vessel was taken from under our noses despite the impressive military presence of Operation Atalanta. If pirates don’t fear a Type 23 frigate, they don’t fear anything. In the Malacca Straits the efforts of the MMEA were having some effect, but the truth is that if you eliminate pirates from one stretch of water, all that happens is that they reappear somewhere else. If you look at maps indicating global piracy hot spots from year to year, you’ll see that they change position, but they don’t become noticeably less numerous.
