by Jay Bahadur
Even without this absurd level of reckless spending, the money disappears remarkably quickly. A successful pirate is expected to share his good fortune with his friends and relatives; the moment he steps off the ship, his money begins to diffuse through an endless kinship network, ending only when the last of the khat leaves have been chewed up and spit out.
* * *
In its short-term effects, khat resembles its South American equivalent, the coca leaf, causing mild euphoria, heightened energy, garrulousness, and appetite loss. Another effect is the belief in one’s own invincibility, which many Somalis view as a factor contributing to the endemic conflict plaguing their country; like pirates, Somali militants are renowned for their rampant khat use, and the drug is thought to help fuel the violence (albeit to a lesser degree than in Liberia, where warlords reputedly rubbed cocaine into the open wounds of their soldiers before sending them into battle).5 As Jamal, my neighbour during the last leg of my flight into Somalia, eloquently explained, “When people chew khat they believe that they have superhuman strength. They would even think they could lift this plane,” raising his arms above his head in a hoisting motion.
Despite such inestimable benefits, the deleterious health effects of khat are both abundant and unpalatable. Short-term withdrawal symptoms include depression, irritability, nightmares, constipation, and tremors, while long-term use of the drug can lead to ulcers, decreased liver function, tooth decay, and possibly some forms of mental illness. The physical ills of the drug are compounded by its social ones; the UN World Food Programme, for example, has reported that in some areas of Puntland the high costs associated with khat consumption are the main reason for not sending children to school (primary school fees are about eight dollars per month) as well as for high divorce rates.6
There are also some not-so-scientifically-documented effects. My Somali host, Abdirizak, claimed that khat causes sperm to leak into men’s urine—eventually rendering them infertile—which he humorously cited as the principal reason that frustrated wives try at all costs to keep their husbands away from it. Like many folk-medicine theories, Abdi’s may have had a basis in truth; there is some evidence that long-term khat abuse can lead to a diminished sex drive. In the short term, conversely, it can have quite the opposite effect.
“When some men chew khat, they need to have a woman immediately,” Abdi once explained to me. “They can’t control themselves.” Indeed, those who prepped me for my own khat experience agreed that the drug would bring about one of two scenarios: I would either become relaxed and talkative, or a sex-crazy maniac bent on immediate satiation. But after all the buildup, I didn’t feel much of anything. Four hours of chewing the bitter filth made me sweaty, jittery, sick to my stomach, and, finally, mildly contented. It did not strike me as an equitable trade-off, yet those who can afford it spend their days chewing khat leaves like a cow on her cud.
In the end, I chewed khat six or seven times during my visits to Puntland, out of perverse pragmatism. In spite of a lifetime of exposure to anti-drug public service ads, I continued chewing simply to fit in. More accurately, I discovered that khat was an incredible interviewing tool; it rendered my interviewees relaxed and talkative, with a compelling urge to express themselves. Interviews could go on for hours so long as the khat continued to flow.
* * *
There are few comprehensive academic studies of the Somali khat trade, and any attempt to obtain accurate information on the khat economy suffers from the general dearth of official statistics about Somalia. The latest government figures come from a 2003 report by the Puntland Ministry of Planning and Statistics, which devotes less than one of its sixty pages to the topic. Concluding with the vague assertion that “khat trade and consumption play an adverse role in the Somali economy in general and particularly in Puntland,” the report nonetheless provides some concrete figures (see Table 1).7
These statistics are enough to construct a rudimentary sketch of the Puntland khat industry of eight years ago. Urban street prices for khat, according to my sources, have remained fairly steady at twenty dollars per kilogram over the last decade (in remote areas the price can be almost double), suggesting that total revenues in 2003 fell just short of $51 million. Using the UN Development Programme’s 2006 Puntland population estimate of 1.3 million, the per capita consumption rate would be around 2.1 kilograms per person. However, khat consumers in Puntland are almost without exception men, and after narrowing the field to males aged fifteen and over,8 annual per capita consumption climbs to 9.1 kilograms, worth about $180. Other sources support this estimate; for example, a 2001 study by the UN’s Water and Sanitation Programme found that poor consumers (the vast majority of Puntlanders) spent an average of $176 per year on the drug.
These numbers, however, are from the pre-piracy era. How might they look in 2011? Attempting to gauge piracy’s effect on khat sales in Puntland, I spoke to three Garowe-based merchants. The first was the aforementioned Fadumo, a bored-looking middle-aged woman with stylish beige sunglasses pushed up on the headdress of her fuchsia guntiino (a garment similar to a sari). My second conversation was with a pair of close friends in their late twenties, Maryan and Faiza, who owned side-by-side stalls in the khat suq. (I later discovered that Maryan—probably the most stunning Somali woman I had ever seen—was a member of Garaad’s rumoured harem of wives, a fact she admitted with an embarrassed giggle, asking how I had learned of it.)9
Fadumo worked long hours, from ten in the morning until ten at night. Her most profitable period was from one to three in the afternoon, when government employees got off work; four o’clock, the time that construction workers finished their day, heralded another mini rush hour. Her best days came at the end of the month, when soldiers were paid, and the two or three times per year that Puntland’s parliament was in session. “When there’s an election, that’s the very best time,” she said, because each candidate would arrive with a large entourage in tow, filling Garowe’s hotels to capacity.
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 cent
ral 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.
