No Fear

by Steve Devereux

  The tracks we were travelling on had only recently been cleared of mines, not by experts but by ordinary people just walking over them and taking a chance. Most ended up dead instantly or, wounded by secondary fragmentation, died later through loss of blood or shock.

  Along one track I felt the vehicle accelerate slightly. I didn't think it could go much faster. I thought Mohammed had already been driving flat out.

  'This track is where I popped off one of those mines I was telling you about. We go faster,' said Mohammed.

  'Why did you bring me here, then? To show me how you pop mines off?'

  'No, no, Mr Steve, it's the way back to town. We have to go here. I have travelled it many a time and it is much safe now.'

  I held on for dear life as Mohammed tried to follow the tracks in the dust of previous vehicles. Whilst doing so, I consciously pulled my bergen underneath me, to act as added protection to my manhood — not that a waterproof sack would hold much defence against an exploding mine.

  In reality, no area was safe until formally searched, but since most of the mines which lay scattered around were the antipersonnel type, then as long as Mohammed stuck to used routes we were relatively safe. There had been no reports of vehicles running over the bar-type anti-tank mines (although designed to take out or at least immobilise tanks, a soft-skin vehicle will quite easily set one off), but I thought that was because very few vehicles were driving around at all. I only hoped Mohammed was as switched-on to the situation as he claimed.

  Sobering though it was, the tour was just what I needed, in that I got a good feel for the plight of the people. Not what they had gone through, nobody could make sense of that , but how they seemed to be coping now. Several times I asked Mohammed to stop so as I could speak with people. Most of the time Mohammed had to translate, not because they didn't speak English, but because it was spoken in an accent that I couldn't readily understand. They were friendly enough and pleased that the war was now over. Like Mohammed they seemed to have an immense hatred for the government of the south but a sense of relief about, and great expectation of, the newly formed Council of Ministers, the government of the north. Was the price worth paying for their independence from the south? There was no doubt in their minds that the answer was yes.

  Every mile or so we came across a checkpoint. These took the form of two or three soldiers presiding over a makeshift wooden barrier across the road and half a dozen bullet-ridden, 50-gallon oil drums filled with rocks and earth to act as traffic cones (presumably to double up as targets when the soldiers got bored). At every one I tried to have a polite chat with them and Mohammed explained what I was here for. At one checkpoint we skidded to a halt. These armed guards were much younger than the previous lot, probably not more than 17 or 18, all in new-looking uniforms. All four approached us. I was beginning to think we had strayed off the beaten track just a little too far. Then Mohammed stood up and shouted to them in English as they trotted over.

  'Hey, my brothers, I have a visitor for you. Come, come.'

  'What's going on?' I asked.

  'These are my brothers, well, my brother's children. They are good boys,' he said.

  Mohammed got out of the vehicle and greeted them all in a sort of communal hug. I stayed put, not sure of the rules of local etiquette. Anyway, I have learnt never to leave the vehicle if possible in certain situations. This might just turn out to be one of those 'certain situations', I thought. I gave a cursory wave to them all, but though they waved back they did not come over. After a few minutes of laughing and pointing in my direction, Mohammed got back in the driver's seat, the barrier was lifted and we drove through. As we passed them, one of the lads yelled out.

  'Gazza, Gazza, Gazza, good football Englishman!'

  'Paul Gascoigne, a top man,' I called back.

  'They like football, they are crazy on it. They listened to the World Cup on the radio, the BBC World Service,' Mohammed explained.

  'Ah yes, of course.'

  I remember thinking that even in the remotest parts of the globe, the BBC World Service is listened to by many, a rich source of information for those who have very little to look forward to in life.

  Mohammed seemed to know every one in Hargeisa, but there was something bothering me, and it wasn't a military thing. All the soldiers I had met had this gobstopper-like growth on their cheek, just as I'd seen at the airport. Mohammed put me right on it. It wasn't a cancerous growth or anything like that. Their mouths were full of the local 'weed', the root of a plant that they call chat. Looking a bit like spinach, it was sold in small hand-size bundles and chewed raw, the leaves as well as the roots. Apparently it was a mild, aniseed-tasting drug which over a period of time made you 'kick back', and was very addictive. Chat was now starting to be grown in the town, but because of the war most of the chat I saw being sold came in across the border via Ethiopia.

  Apart from sugar, chat was the only stable currency on the 'vegetable counter'. It was sold in huge quantities every day at 12 o'clock sharp at chat markets all over Somaliland. Only the men took it, and it was the only thing to look forward to in the current circumstances. They would sit around for the rest of the day chewing the root into a large ball and storing it in their mouths, as a hamster might do with nuts, waiting for its hallucinogenic effect to take hold.

  Word spreads very quickly about the smallest piece of gossip in a place like Hargeisa, especially when people have very little to do with their lives, and around late afternoon on my second day I got a typed invitation to meet with the newly established Government and its 'main man', a Mr Abdel Rachman. The invitation was very formal, like one to an Embassy bash, and I found its neatness curious.

  Alistair had arrived during the day, so once he'd got himself settled and had a quick recce, we got ourselves cleaned up and went to visit Mr Rachman and his Council of Ministers for the Government of Somaliland. As we approached the main street where the government building was, we noticed lots of people running everywhere. There was also a warlike chant which got louder as we neared the Ministry. Mohammed had no idea what was happening, so as we turned the corner on to the main street he slowed down and asked a guy what the problem was. Alistair and I held our breath, hoping that this wasn't a coup. In such circumstances our invitation would tar us as friends of the 'old government', and as a result we would probably face death by firing squad. Quickly I ditched any evidence of the invitation by setting light to it in the front of the Land Rover. Then Mohammed said that everything was alright, there was no coup going on just yet.

  'It's the people, Mr Steve, it's the people! They are very angry. They are very angry that one of the ministers has been talking to the government of the south. They are demanding that Mr Rachman hand over this minister.'

  That's alright ? I thought. 'Jesus Christ, Mohammed, you're kidding me. What sort of shit have we just run into!' I said.

  'No, Mr Steve, I'm not kidding. We must get out of here, quickly!'

  Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. We were in the middle of a horrendously dangerous situation without a hope of escape. We couldn't drive fast or even manoeuvre the vehicle away because of the crowds. However, they didn't seem to take much notice of our vehicle as they were too intent on getting to the Ministry gates. At this point I thought I should have made getting tooled up my first priority on landing here. There certainly was no shortage of weapons, everyone had an AK 47 slung over their shoulder. Right now, I could have done with a nice little PPK pistol and a couple of mags of ammunition. Alistair was of the same opinion.

  Mohammed quickly found a place to do a U-turn, but as we did it the crowd blocked us in and we were left at 90 degrees across the road, facing the government gates. The crowd was growing larger and noisier by the second, then they started to rock the Land Rover. Mohammed was silent, so was I, so was Alistair. It was like being taken over by a swarm of bees. Some of the crowd started to try and open the doors but we held them shut. Others clambered over the bonnet, yet other
s were hanging on to the outside. Then I realised it was not us they were interested in, but what was happening over at the gates. People had started to scale the security walls and in a few seconds the gates were open. A few shots were fired, and that was the signal for every man who had a weapon to fire a mag into the air. There was a big scuffle from the gate area, then my vision was blurred by this mass of bodies all wanting to get a piece of what was happening.

  Suddenly the crowd parted in the middle, forming a gap of about ten feet. Here I saw one of the funniest but saddest sights I have ever seen in my entire life. Given the seemingly very dangerous situation we had found ourselves in, it was understandable that my bodily functions and emotions were doing all sorts of flick flacks. So I found myself laughing, but for the wrong reasons. Although what I saw looked funny, I was really laughing because I was very nervous.

  The crowd had parted to reveal what I presumed to be the disloyal minister. Stripped totally naked, he was now being pursued with great haste down the road and out of town by a horde of women holding up what was left of his clothes. The crowd was roaring with laughter — not the laughter you associate with watching a good comedy, but laughter with sinister undertones, a sarcastic kind of laughter. Some were still rocking our Land Rover in their frenzy, and small arms were still being fired off into the air as they let rip with their emotions. Then, without any obvious reason, the firing stopped just as quickly as it had started and they broke out into full melodious song. The rocking of the Land Rover stopped, too, and the rest of the crowd gave chase. Then everything was silent. Suddenly, from a crowd of 300 or so, half a dozen armed guards at the gates were all that remained.

  Alistair and I agreed that we'd had enough excitement for one day and told Mohammed to return to our basha. I asked Mohammed what would happen to the ex-minister. He just shrugged his shoulders.

  'Mr Steve, the people were very angry today, you saw how they reacted. They thought of him as a traitor.'

  'What will they do to him, send him back down south?' I paused. 'They won't kill him, will they?'

  'Yes, of course,' he said, quite casually.

  Whether that meant 'they' would send him back down south in a box or not, I never found out. It was left to my imagination to think the worst. I was in Somaliland, Africa, not Surrey, England.

  Two things happened later that day. One, I sent Mohammed around to the Ministry with our apologies and to try and arrange a meeting for another day; and two, I persuaded Mohammed to take me to a man — every town has one — who would sell me something more useful than nervous laughter and a supercilious grin to protect myself with.

  In the safety of a faintly-lit market wig-warn affair, and with the provocative aroma of hashish lingering all around, I found that a set of questionable designer shades and an American ten-dollar bill bought me a serviceable Makarov pistol, 50 rounds of ammunition, and a woman. I politely declined the offer of sex so, as a substitute I was then offered a box of 500 rounds for the pistol. These I also had to decline because I couldn't carry them all, and anyway, this was meant to be a covert deal, with no one meant to know that I was carrying.

  Over the next few days Alistair and I had our work cut out. First of all, we'd received a signal from the UK saying that six guys, the first of the training team, were due to arrive in country in four days' time. This put us under pressure to arrange the collection of the equipment up at the port of Berbera, where the landing strip was, and make the 350-mile round trip back to Hargeisa in time. We also had to locate where we wanted to establish the base camp and then liaise with the local militia chief Abdoli to arrange accommodation for his 400 or so men. These we were going to train up as the mine-clearance force, a force which I named the Pioneers. Timings were critical, it was going to be tight.

  Early on in the second day I called up Baz on the radio to see how he was fixed about flying in, and to go firm on a RV with him at some spot up at Berbera on the afternoon of day four. He replied that he and his crew were all ready and told me not to worry about the loading that end, they had it all under control. They were definitely up for it.

  In the course of my short time in country I'd already met with Abdoli and cemented our friendship with another pair of snazzy sunglasses. He was a short, thin, wiry man who looked 60 but I reckoned he was only about 40. Fighting for his country had certainly taken its toll. For sure, he was an experienced mine-clearer. So were his men, whom he had personally trained up. They were still responsible for clearing all the major routes in and out of the town of mines. Abdoli was also responsible for educating the kids not to play in areas his men had not yet cleared, but unfortunately, his warnings usually fell on deaf ears. It was not uncommon to hear the muffled explosion of another mine being detonated by little feet — in fact, it was a daily occurrence. His efforts had been acknowledged by the Government and because of this he was a well-respected figure about town. Not the type of guy to piss off, even though he might be wrong on a point or two during a conversation. Anyway, I liked the guy. Although he'd had a lot of shit in his life, he was still prepared to do something constructive for the good of his people. I could see it would have been easier just to sit back with the rest of them and plod on until the aid organisations flew in, but instead he got on with what had to be done to tidy up his town.

  During our meetings with him, Alistair and I realised that he thought we were here to teach him how to clear mines. We told him no, we were here to teach the men , whom he was going to supply to us. Luckily, he was happy with that. We needed this guy on our side because he knew a lot more about the goings on and who was who than we did. We had to secure our relationship with him for the good of the contract. In addition, he had relieved us of one of our major problems, the site selection of base camp. He was adamant that the best place to train the team of Pioneers was the main army base, now deserted, just outside of the town. His men had cleared it for just that purpose: rockets, bomb, ammunitions, mines, the lot. We couldn't really argue with his choice, so once our quick recce was carried out, we had to agree.

  In one meeting I got the feeling that Abdoli was a lot more powerful than he made himself out to be, and that somewhere there was a hidden agenda. I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was and didn't care to dwell on it too much, but it was something to do with the tribal culture in this part of the world. Since half the Pioneers were coming from afar, from another tribe, I could only surmise that there was going to be a clash of the chiefs further down the road. It was therefore good sense for Abdoli to argue the case for having the base camp set up in Hargeisa; if fighting were to break out, he would be on home territory.

  From the outset, Abdoli had stuck very close to us and wanted to know what our game plan was. It was pretty difficult to tell him that, because we were taking every day as it came, almost making it up as we went along. The game plan kept changing because of the unstable situation.

  Petrol was our main concern. We were very much governed by how much there was in Hargeisa and how much we could draw on at any one time. It fluctuated daily from one gallon to ten. Without petrol there was not a lot we could do. The few warlords with wheels basically controlled the fuel supplies, but that was where Abdoli came in. He had become aware of the problem, so had dropped a word in someone's shell-like, and sorted out our fuel problem. More importantly, he had also arranged for us to fuel up for the journey up to Berbera and back, on the understanding that he took a cut of the petrol ration. I had no problem with that, it was part and parcel of the operation, and an ideal example of the hearts and minds programme I've mentioned elsewhere.

  The journey from Hargeisa to Berbera took us through some of the most inhospitable terrain I have ever travelled across. Abdoli's men, an armed posse of about 20 of his best mine-clearers, accompanied us. Bandits were all about us so I kept my pistol cocked and very close. As it took us the best part of the day, we arrived at Berbera late afternoon. We were greeted by the MSF project co-ordinator for Somaliland, a young, thick-set Be
lgian guy who called himself Frederick, Fred for short, who'd made Berbera his capital. He seemed pleasant enough, with a charitable brain in his head, and he turned out to be a good laugh after he had got his head around the fact that his home had just been invaded by a couple of British ex-servicemen. We stayed the night in his apartment which was a newly converted shack with all mod cons: a TV and video, hot and cold running water, carpets and new-looking furniture. Berbera was a lot more upmarket than Hargeisa and in general the people were much better off — though one couldn't go more downmarket than Hargeisa.

  That evening Alistair and I went through the following morning's game plan with Fred. It was important to start as early as possible, and that would allow us to start our return journey equally early. That way, we wouldn't get caught out in the wilderness during the dark hours. I didn't relish getting into a firefight with a horde of roaming cutthroats, with or without Abdoli's men. I also needed to get out at first light, if possible, because I had to recce the airstrip before Baz and his team flew in — we had gone firm on landing at about 05.00 hours. I also had to meet up with the man in charge of the trucks we were going to hire. Back in Hargeisa Mohammed had said that there would be no problem getting transport, because the port was the only area in the whole of the country where truck owners could find work. Fred confirmed that. However, I wasn't thoroughly convinced, and had to see the trucks with my own eyes before I was 100 per cent sure they existed. But that would have to wait for the morning.

  In typical Belgian style, Fred invited us out for dinner. I thought he was kidding; where the hell was there to go? But no sooner had we arrived, once I had dumped my kit on my bed space, I was bouncing, with Alistair, in the back of a Toyota Land Cruiser, heading towards the big lights of the town, without even so much as a splash of water over my face to take the day's grime away. Here we could sample the delights of downtown Berbera and God knows what else.